The Foster Child in the Forensic Anthropologist
by K. Elisabeth
Summary: During a particularly close-to-home case involving a foster child, Sweets forces Brennan to recount and examine her past experiences in the foster care system. What she uncovers within herself isn't pretty. BB, some fluff. Complete!
1. La Chica en La Cienaga

**A/N:** Yes, I am one of those people who starts one project, gets bored, starts another, goes back to the first one, does a little more, switches to another, maybe starts a new one... you get the point. xD I know I haven't gotten anywhere near finishing The Hands in the Snow, but I was hit in the face by inspiration to write this fic last night, so I decided to go ahead and get started on it. Synopsis-wise, it is a more in-depth look at Brennan's past in the foster care system, and how her experiences there made her into the person she is today.

Since we really don't know anything about her days as a foster kid, I took a lot of liberties there... which I feel completely entitled to do since I have nothing else to go on! Also, _Bones_ contradicted itself as far as how Temperance got out of foster care... at first they said her grandfather sprung her, but later she says she did not know she had any family other than her parents and brother. I am going with what makes more sense, which is that she "aged out" of foster care by turning 18 rather than being rescued by a family member.

**NOTE/DISCLAIMER:** Lucky for you, my Spanish is considerably better than my Inuit (Confused? Check out The Hands in the Snow) but it is not my primary language, so if you find any issues with my Spanish, please let me know - I always want to learn and fix my mistakes, so I won't be insulted if you correct me! Also, I don't own _Bones_, don't even pretend to. Enjoy!

**P.S.:** The title of this chapter (La Chica en La Ciénaga) translates to "The Girl in the Swamp". :)

* * *

Heat rose from the pavement as Dr. Temperance Brennan and Special Agent Seeley Booth crossed the parking lot, bickering loudly as one might have come to expect.

"I don't understand the relevance," Brennan said impatiently, pulling her hair off the back of her neck and twisting it into a low bun. The July sun hung high in an otherwise empty sky; it was what Booth might describe as an "Indian summer". In Temperance's words, that meant an unseasonably high air temperature matched with a high relative humidity level. She felt beads of sweat roll down her sternum and resisted the urge to wipe them away with her shirt.

"I'm just saying is that it's a case that's close to home and maybe we should mention it to Sweets, that's all," Booth defended, suit coat folded over his shoulder, rolling the white starched sleeves up to his elbows.

"Booth, I've worked on plenty of cases with foster children, this one is no different," Brennan said. Booth unlocked the SUV and cranked the engine, cool air pouring out of the vents as they climbed in.

"No, it _is_ different," he argued. "It's personal."

"No more so than any other case," she persisted, with a tone that suggested finality. Booth let her have the last word for now, but made a mental note to reopen this particular argument at their therapy session later that afternoon.

When they returned to the Jeffersonian, Brennan found Angela sitting cross-legged on her office couch, a sketchpad resting in her lap. Her eyes were shut, the way they always were when she was mentally reconstructing a human face. When she heard Brennan enter her eyes fluttered open, and she could immediately see frustration written all over her friend's face.

"What did you find out at Social Services?" she asked, setting aside the sketchpad and scooting over to give Brennan room to sit. She took the seat and leaned back into the couch, closing her eyes.

"Nothing good," she said, letting out a frustrated sigh. Angela waited patiently for her elaboration. "The partial prints Cam was able to lift, along with your sketch, definitely identified the girl as Sonja Alvarez. Social Services says she's been missing for almost a month now."

"Gosh," Angela said heavily, shaking her head. While it was always good to get an I.D. on a victim, it was still depressing to identify a dead child. Brennan nodded.

"She ran away from her foster family a month ago, but called her boyfriend from a pay phone a few days after she left," Brennan explained.

"And then?" Angela asked.

"Fell off the radar completely," Booth picked up, having quietly entered the office during their conversation. "Until two days ago when she showed up in a Florida swamp."

"Another girl in a gator?" Angela asked, but Booth and Brennan both shook their heads.

"Nope, just Sonja," Booth said, grabbing Brennan by the crook of her arm and lifting her out of her seat. "Come on, we gotta go."

"What, why?" she asked, looking at the clock. "It's not time for our appointment yet!"

"No, but we found Sonja's biological father," Booth said grimly. "It's time to break the news. Let's go." Brennan allowed herself to be lifted and mouthed 'bye' to Angela as Booth quickly lead her out of the office, only relinquishing his grip when they were well down the hall.

When they entered the room where Sonja's father was waiting, Brennan was surprised by his appearance. She had been expecting the kind of father child services would take a daughter from—rough edged, dirty, violent. Instead she saw a short, clean-shaven man in khaki slacks and a collared shirt, fidgeting with his tie, looking like a worried parent who was missing his daughter. A daughter he had not seen in over a year.

"Hola," he said as they entered, standing nervously. "Usted se buscó Sonja?" Booth stared at the man awkwardly for a moment, then turned to Brennan, at a loss.

"Habla Ingles?" Brennan asked, and the man nodded.

"Sí, lo siento," he apologized, rubbing his hand backwards over his head anxiously. "Did you find my daughter? My Sonja?"

"Yes," Booth said delicately. "You are Hector Alvarez, correct?"

"Sí, yes," he said quickly, taking a step towards Booth. "Did you find her? Is she alright?" Booth and Brennan exchanged looks, and Booth put his hand on the table.

"You should sit down," he said. Hector's face blanched, and he collapsed into his seat, bringing his hands to his face.

"No," he said slowly. "No, no, no no no…" Booth pulled out a chair and sat across from Hector, nodding slowly.

"Don't I have to see her?" Hector asked tearfully. "Mirar a mi hija?"

"No, Mr. Alvarez, we were able to identify her using the finger prints she had registered with social services," Brennan explained gently, standing next to Booth's seat. Hector rubbed his face in his hands, blinking hard. He looked up at Brennan with hard eyes.

"Das por seguro?" he asked. "You are sure this is my child?" Brennan nodded, and he sighed heavily, looking down at the carpet.

"Mr. Alvarez, if you don't mind me asking… for someone who hasn't seen his daughter in over a year you seemed awfully upset by her disappearance," Booth said suggestively, narrowing his brows at Hector.

"How can you say that?" Hector asked incredulously. "I love my daughter, very much. Fue todo mi corazón. My _entire_ heart, Agent Booth. Do you know what is it to love a child with your entire heart?" Booth looked slightly affronted at the suggestion that he didn't.

"Yes, I have a son," he said, thrown off. Hector nodded.

"Then you know, even if they are a thousand miles away, they live in your heart. They had good reason to take Sonja from me; after her mother died I began to drink, I turned to drugs, I quit my job… I was not the father she needed. And I regret that every day," he said feverously. "But I still loved her. I got help for my problems; I have been clean for six months last week. I have a job now. I am fixing things."

"Congratulations," Booth said. Hector shook his head.

"It doesn't matter now. None of it does… it was all for her," he said sadly. "I wanted my daughter back, I was trying to do right by her, to get her out of the system and back home where she belonged. Whatever happened to her is my fault."

"Don't say that," Brennan blurted out before she could restrain herself. Booth looked up at her, as did Hector. "You were trying… to get her back. That counts," Brennan said, flushing and walking out of the room. Booth spoke to Hector for a few minutes more and then left, eventually finding Brennan leaned against his SUV in the parking lot, eyes shut.

"You okay?" he asked, and she nodded a little too assuredly.

"I'm fine," she said, stepping into the car.

"Okay then," Booth said, accepting that it was something she did not want to talk about, at that moment or possibly ever. "We'd better roll if we're going to get to Sweets' office on time." Brennan nodded and turned on the radio, finding a jazz station and turning the volume up to a level that could not be comfortably spoken over. This, Booth had learned over the years as her partner, meant she did not want to talk, about anything.

By the time they reached Sweets's office Brennan had regained composure and began initiating small talk with Booth, which he found obnoxious only because he knew it was an attempt to mask her emotions. He played along nonetheless, but prepared to play hardball when Sweets opened his office door and beckoned them in with a smile.

"So guys, what's up?" Sweets asked, sitting in his chair and offering them the couch. Booth shrugged innocently and looked at Brennan, who made an oblivious face.

"Just working on a case," Booth finally said when Brennan did not offer up anything. "Somebody found the body of a foster kid in a Florida swamp two days ago."

"Oh really?" Sweets asked, his face lighting up the way it did when he caught the scent. "A ward of the state, huh? Dr. Brennan, that must bring up some strong emotions for you."

"No it doesn't," she denied, shaking her head. Sweets made a face at her.

"Oh come on, you were in the foster care system for three years before you aged out," Sweets said. "It's personal for you."

"See!" Booth said, but Brennan brushed him off.

"I've dealt with plenty of other cases involving foster children, this one is no different," Brennan argued, but Sweets and Booth both shook their heads simultaneously.

"She knows the victim's foster parents," Booth blurted, cringing away from Brennan as she turned to him, outraged.

"Why would you tell him that?!" she asked angrily, and Sweets nearly exploded with happiness.

"You _know_ them? Like, 'experience in the system' know them?" he asked, and Brennan slowly nodded, scowling.

"They moved from Illinois to Virginia a few years ago," she admitted.

"You've kept in touch?" he asked, and she shook her head vehemently.

"No, I read their file when I recognized the name. But that's not important, it doesn't matter!" she said. "It's not personal."

"Oh, it's so personal," Sweets said, taking notes frantically. Booth nodded smugly.

"See? It's personal," he said, and Brennan looked apt to spit nails.

"If you would have just kept your mouth shut…" she started, but Sweets interjected.

"No, Agent Booth is right, it's very important that we discuss these feelings that are coming up with this investiga—"

"There are no feelings!" Brennan shouted. Sweets leaned back in his chair, taken aback, and Brennan realized just how loud her outburst was. The room fell silent, with Booth and Sweets staring at Brennan, who felt more and more like a specimen in the lab with each passing second. She folded her hands in her lap, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But there are no 'feelings' surfacing because of this investigation. It's just a case, like any other."

"Not really, not to you anyway," Sweets said. "You can't work on this case."

"What? Why not?" she asked, and Booth rolled his eyes.

"Hello Bones, you know the family," he said, and her mouth formed a small 'O' shape.

"I didn't even… but I… I don't really 'know them' know them!" she insisted.

"You lived with them for a month, Bones, I think the court would consider that knowing them well enough to tamper with evidence," Booth said. Brennan looked insulted.

"Why would I… I don't even know them! I don't care about them! Why would I tamper with evidence? Did you tell Caroline?"

"Of course I told Caroline!" Booth said. "Don't you remember what happened when Hodgins forgot to inform us that he knew the victim's wife? Do you think I want Caroline all over my ass like that again?"

"He used to be _engaged_ to the victim's wife, I hardly know the victim's foster parents, it's totally different," Brennan argued.

"You lived with them for a month," Sweets pointed out.

"That doesn't matter!" Brennan insisted.

"But it does," Sweets said, resisting the urge to smile.

"This is ridiculous," Brennan said stubbornly.

"Sorry Bones, that's the law," Booth said. She crossed her arms and leaned back into the sofa.

"Agent Booth, you can go," Sweets said, flipping to a new sheet of paper. Booth and Brennan both stood, but Sweets held up his hand.

"I said Agent Booth could leave, Dr. Brennan. You're staying with me."

"Why?" Booth and Brennan asked simultaneously.

"Because Dr. Brennan and I need some alone time," Sweets said. Booth let out a snort, unable to suppress it, and Brennan raised her eyebrows curiously. Sweets blushed an intense shade of magenta.

"I didn't mean it like… I just… Dr. Brennan and I need to discuss her past with the foster care system and we can't do that with Agent Booth here." Sweets said, flustered. Booth looked hurt.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Patient confidentiality, Agent Booth. I wouldn't divulge anything to Dr. Brennan that was said in confidence between you and I, and the same applies to her. You can wait in the lobby if you want to," Sweets said, rising to his feet and ushering Booth out the door.

"But—" Brennan started.

"See ya," Booth said, giving a short wave as he fled the room, Sweets shutting the door softly behind him. Sweets returned to his seat, flipping to a new sheet of yellow lined paper and tapping the end of his pen against the pad.

"So where do you want to start?" he asked, smiling.

"I don't know," Brennan said, still stubbornly refusing to offer up any personal information.

"How about December 30th, 1991?" Sweets asked, looking up at Brennan.

"Why then?" she asked warily, and Sweets rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on, you know why," he said. "The day Russ left you! The day you officially became an orphan, at least for the time being." Brennan sighed—of course she knew why.

"Fine," she said bitterly. "I guess we can start there. December 30th, 1991."

* * *

**A/N:** Like it? Hate it? Want more? Leave a review and let me know! :)


	2. One, Two, Under My Shoe

**A/N:** I'm glad you guys like the story so far! A lot of it from this point on is going to be about Temperance's life in the system, though, so I hope you're not too attached to the case... because in all honesty I probably won't be talking much about it. xD But you will be seeing Sweets, Booth, the Squints, etc... just not in this chapter.

I loved writing this chapter because it's very 90s, and as a child of the 90s it brings back insanely fond memories for me. :) Because let's be real, you know Super Nintendo was THE STUFF and if you were the one kid on your block who didn't have one, you were at your friend's house playing it every day. And I still have my Walkman somewhere among my 90s detritus in the garage... along with about 2836535 cassette tapes!

Anyway, end of 90s tangent... on with the story!

* * *

_December 30th__, 1991_

When Temperance awoke that morning, her first cognizant thought was that the house was unusually quiet. Between dad and Russ, the house was never quiet.

_Dad's gone,_ a small voice in the back of her head reminded, and she frowned. Banishing the thought of her missing parents, who had been gone for over a week without as much as a phone call or letter, Temperance rolled out of bed and cringed as her feet hit the cold floor. Her PJ pants had turned into high waters over the past few months—another growth spurt, putting her neck-and-neck with Russ for height—and an oversized R.E.M. t-shirt couldn't hide the fact that she was, as her mother had delightfully put it, "becoming a woman". Leering into the mirror, Temperance could find nothing womanly about her appearance—a few breakouts, unruly eyebrows, ugly brown hair. Not even cool brown hair like Paula Abdul or Shannen Doherty… just plain, flat brown hair. Nothing special, just another fifteen-year-old nothing.

She padded down the stairs into the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. As milk was flowing from the carton she paused, listening.

"That's strange," she said under her breath, nearly overflowing the bowl. Ever since Russ's birthday a month ago, every spare moment he had was dedicated to Super Mario or Demon's Crest. Personally, Temperance liked ChessMaster—nobody around the house would ever play Chess with her, but with the Super Nintendo, she didn't need them to.

But this morning, there was nothing. No shooting, no tunnel warp sounds, no Bowser growls, nothing. Just silence. Temperance left her soggy, overflowed cereal sitting on the counter and walked into the living room. The TV was off and the blinds were closed; it looked as if he hadn't even entered the room. Suddenly worried, Temperance bolted up the stairs, throwing open doors as she traveled down the hall. Mom and Dad's office, empty. Bathroom, empty. Guest room, empty. Her room, empty.

When she reached the last door, the door to Russ's bedroom, she paused, feeling the cool brass doorknob under her fingers. He usually yelled at her if she walked into his room without knocking. After one particularly traumatizing afternoon, though, she rarely went into his room period, and _never_ without knocking. She held a breath for a few seconds, then let it out and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door.

"Russ?" she called out hesitantly. No response. She knocked again, harder, and called his name. No response. She turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, poking her head into the dark room.

The room was empty, and not just in an "I'm not home" kind of way. His desk was cleared off and his bed was made—two things that never occurred in Russ's living space. Temperance walked into the room and touched the smoothed-out bedspread, which was cold; he hadn't been sleeping there recently. Suddenly stricken with fear, she pulled his dresser drawers open and felt her stomach bottom out.

All of his clothes were gone.

"Russ!" she yelled out, hearing her own voice crack as it echoed down the hall. She ran downstairs, blasting through every room of the house; their parents' room, their bathroom, the living room, the family room, the dining room, the kitchen, even the laundry room. Every room was empty, undisturbed. She was alone.

She fell to her knees in the middle of the living room and started to cry. Mom and Dad leaving was bad enough, but now Russ was gone too? Where did he go? Did he know where Mom and Dad were? Were they all together, did they leave her behind? Her head spun with thoughts as she curled up on the Berber carpet, tears leaving hot, wet tracks down the sides of her face.

After she has cried out everything she had in her, Temperance peeled back the pieces of hair stuck to her wet face and sat up. She didn't know what to do; when their parents had left, Russ had taken charge and made all the decisions. No, they wouldn't call the police. Yes, they would stay put and keep going as if nothing was wrong; after all, Mom and Dad might come back. Now she was alone and had nobody to call the shots for her, and the idea of making those decisions on her own was terrifying.

Not knowing what else to do, Temperance walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone from where it was nestled in the cradle. She held it up to her ear and listened to the dial tone buzz until she finally gathered the courage to punch in the numbers. When she heard it ring, she leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, tucking her knees up to her chest.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" the woman on the other end of the line asked, snapping her gum into the receiver. Temperance froze, unable to speak, and the woman repeated her question.

"Hello, what is your emergency?" she asked impatiently.

"Uhm…" Temperance started, and the woman sighed loudly.

"Is this another one of those prank calls? You know, it's not funny; somebody who's really hurt might be tryin' to get through while you kids are tyin' up the line!" With that the woman hung up, leaving Temperance with the dial tone again. She pressed down on the disconnect and dialed the number again, this time with more nerve.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" the same woman asked, but this time Temperance had her voice.

"Hello, my name is Temperance Brennan, and…" she felt her voice catch in her throat, and she didn't know how to say it—that her parents were gone, her brother had abandoned her, she was terrified and vulnerable and had nobody to turn to, nobody to hold her hand and comfort her.

"What's your problem, hon?" the woman asked. Temperance gulped.

"I'm… I'm all alone," she said.

After some coaxing the woman was able to figure out at least enough of the situation that she felt comfortable sending a dispatch unit to the home to check on the girl. She stayed on the line with Temperance, who mostly listened and twirled the long cord around her fingers, until the officer knocked on the door.

"Hold on," Temperance said, setting the phone on the floor and hopping up, running to the front door to see who it was. Something swelled inside of her, thinking for a brief moment that it might be Russ returning—maybe he went to spend the night with a friend and just didn't say anything!

When she peered through the peephole and saw a uniformed officer tapping his foot outside of her door, though, the balloon inside of her deflated, and she undid the lock and opened the door with slow, robotic motion.

"Okay, thank you," Temperance said to the woman as she picked up the receiver and hung up, setting it back on the cradle. The officer was sitting on her living room couch when she walked back into the room, his large stomach falling out over his tightly cinched belt. He sat and listened as she recounted the story of the past week and a half—her parents left, her brother had been taking care of her until last night when he apparently left, she had no family or friends she could go to and she was essentially alone. The officer took notes on a small pad of paper, offering no sympathy, just the occasional 'mhmm' and 'okay'.

"That's quite a story," the officer said after she had finished, looking at her from the other end of the couch. She nodded solemnly. "I suppose the best thing to do right now then would be to take you down to the county group home until we can place you with foster care."

"Take me to… what?" she asked, not sure she was hearing him correctly.

"Well I can't leave you here all by yourself," the officer said, rising to his feet. "You don't have any family who can take care of you, so you'll have to stay in a group home for a few days 'til we can find a foster family to take you in."

"Foster care? Like an orphan?" Temperance said incredulously, and the man shrugged.

"I mean, unless you can tell me where your parents are, yeah, an orphan, exactly." He looked down at her without sadness or remorse—just a man doing his job—and rubbed his hands together.

"You go get your things together, I'll wait for you in the squad car," he said, walking towards the front door. He turned around as he crossed over the threshold.

"And remember," he said. "No guns, no knives, no drugs, no liquor. And pack light, no more than one bag." Then he left, leaving Temperance, if possible, even more alone than she had been before.

Temperance changed into jeans and a t-shirt and grabbed one of Russ's duffle bags—the largest one she could find—and began packing her belongings. How could she possibly fit a lifetime of memories, of things, into one small bag? She layered in clothes first—shirts, pants, a jacket, pajamas, and enough underwear to keep the U.S. Military. That was one thing her mother had always stressed; plenty of underwear.

Thinking about her mother made her insides writhe painfully, so she stopped. She added socks, her favorite hat, and Russ's Walkman—it wasn't as if he'd come back looking for it. When the bag was nearly full, she threw in a few personal affects; a framed picture of her, Russ, Mom, and Dad from last Christmas, her favorite book (The Bell Jar), and a stuffed lamb that she'd had since she was a baby. Little did she know that in three years' time she would return to this very house, heavy with dust and cobwebs, and find everything just as she had left it that day. Since she did not, she agonized over what to take and what to leave.

On her way out she ran into her mother's room, rooting through her jewelry box until she found what she was looking for—her Mom's pearls. They were a family heirloom, and she would be damned if she left them behind. She put them on, tucking them beneath the collar of her t-shirt, and sighed heavily. She felt like she was walking away from the story of her entire life, and only tearing out a page to take with her.

"All ready?" the officer asked brightly as she sat down in the back of the squad car, peering back at her through the bars that divided the car into two sections—good people and criminals. _Why,_ she thought to herself, _do I feel like a criminal?_ She nodded quietly, setting the heavy bag in the seat next to her, and stared out the window as they pulled away from the house that she had once called home. She craned her neck as they drove down the street, watching the house shrink until they rounded the corner and it disappeared completely from sight. She hugged her jacket close to her body as she shivered uncontrollably, despite the heat pouring from the squad car's vents, and wished she were wherever Russ had gone.

She spent most of the rest of the afternoon being processed at Social Services, being shuffled from room to room, social worker to social worker, smiling face to smiling face. By the end of the day she was so fed up with happiness she could scream—_Why are they allowed to be so happy when this is happening to me? How can they smile?_

When the sun had set and she was finally escorted by a shriveled-up social worker to the parking lot, Temperance was surprised to find a thin layer of snow on the ground. It hadn't snowed in weeks, despite the frigid temperatures, and now in the time it had taken for her to go from Temperance Brennan to A Ward of the State, the ground was covered in shimmering white. Ironic, how quickly things change.

The old man drove her to a slightly dilapidated house on the east side of town, in the kind of neighborhood Temperance's mother usually wouldn't let Russ go visit friends in. Temperance had no friends, so it was never an issue for her. He parked the car in the driveway and smiled kindly to Temperance, who did not return the gesture.

"Home sweet home," he said, and she nearly vomited at the blatant irony of the remark. They stood under the beam of a floodlight at the front door and rang the doorbell, which chimed jovially as the wind picked up, biting at Temperance's face and hands, which held the contents of her life in a worn-out duffle bag.

"Come in, come in," a very large, rosy-cheeked woman said as she opened the door, ushering them in from the cold. While the house had a slightly fallen-apart look to it on the outside, it was warm and inviting on the inside. An eclectic collection of rugs covered the unfinished wood flooring, and at least a dozen chairs and small sofas were crammed into the small living room, hardly leaving space to walk.

The walls were covered in cheap frames showing pictures of smiling children, most of them with their arms around the woman or each other. They came in all shapes and colors—black, white, Hispanic, from babies to high school graduates, boys and girls, and all broken alike.

"Please sit down," the woman said, folding a blanket that had been left scrunched up at one end of a threadbare loveseat, laying it over the back.

"Temperance, this is Janice Chaplin. She and her husband Arthur are in charge of this group home. She'll be taking care of you until we find a foster home for you," the man explained, trying his best to forge a connection between Temperance and himself. It was like talking to a brick wall. The woman saw his struggle and beamed warmly at the thin, unhappy girl sitting in front of her.

"Hi there Temperance, I'm Janice. It's really nice to have you here with us, for a little bit," she offered, smiling with an almost hesitance, as if waiting to see if Temperance would take the happy bait or not. No good—Temperance just nodded, seeming to stare right past the woman. Suddenly a baby began squalling from a back room, and Janice jumped to her feet.

"One second," she said, running lithely to the back room despite her extra weight, and returning momentarily with a red-faced, screaming baby on her hip.

"This is Sienna, she's living here for the time being too," Janice said, jostling the child gently to ease her tantrum.

"How many kids live here?" Temperance asked, unable to help herself. The woman smiled at the sound of her voice.

"Twelve, including you," she said. "Sienna, Paul, Jeremy, Kamaria, Alice, Maya, Eric, Darius, Abner, Valencia, Mark, and you, Temperance." She ticked them off on the fingers of her free hand, hardly straining herself to remember all of their names. It was a token of her care for the children, but it fell on mostly deaf ears. Temperance just nodded, watching the baby as she was slowly soothed into serenity.

"Sienna is the youngest I have right now," Janice said. "Mark is the oldest, he's sixteen. How old are you, honey?"

"She's fifteen," the social worker answered for her, saving her from having to open her mouth again. Janice nodded.

"Perfect, you can room with Kamaria, she's fourteen. Let me take you down to the basement, that's where most of the kids are right now." Temperance left her bag next to the couch and followed the woman warily down the steps, aware of the noise increase with every step towards the basement they took. By the time they reached the door, it sounded like Chuck E Cheese was holding a concert on the other side.

"Concrete block foundation, really helps insulate the noise," Janice said with a smile, pausing for a second before opening the door.

The room was an explosion of noise as children watched a television, played board games, braided each other's hair, and just generally argued, screamed, laughed, and played. The room fell silent, though, once everyone became aware of Temperance's presence.

"Guys, this is Temperance. She'll be living with us for a while," Janice said, putting her hand on Temperance's back and pushing her towards the group. She felt like she was being offered up to the wolves, and began to panic.

"Don't worry, we won't bite," a black girl with long, skinny braids shouted, causing the room to break out in laughter. Temperance smiled nervously, and Janice patted her on the shoulder.

"Have fun," she said, leaving her with her new "housemates". They approached her as a group, eyeballing her curiously.

"Your clothes are nice," the black girl who had spoken before said. "You ain't come from another home, you just got in the system." The other kids nodded, and Temperance swallowed hard, giving one nod.

"So what happened, your folks dead?" another girl asked, younger than Temperance, maybe ten. Temperance shook her head.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, and the girl shrugged.

"Fine, suit yourself," she said, returning to the television show she had been watching. The children slowly fell back into their previous activities, leaving Temperance mostly alone. After a few minutes the black girl approached her again.

"I'm Kamaria," she introduced.

"I'm… Temperance," she said after a pause, almost forgetting her own name. Kamaria nodded.

"I know," she said.

"I think we're roommates," Temperance said after a prolonged silence.

"Pro'ly. Hannah went to a family a few days ago, I bet you get her bed," Kamaria explained, starting up the stairs. "C'mon, I'll show you the room." Temperance followed her up the stairs, then up another set of stairs, to the second floor of the house. She heard Janice singing a hymn to baby Sienna as she lay her back down to sleep, and Temperance felt horribly sorry for the child—she would never know her parents.

"Here it is," Kamaria said, flicking on the light switch and illuminating a plain, utilitarian room. Two beds, two dressers, and a night stand between the beds with a small lamp. The walls were plain but clean, as were the linens on the beds, which were both made.

"Janice makes us make our beds," Kamaria said, sitting down on one of them. Temperance saw that her bag was set at the foot of the other bed. "We do laundry too, on Sundays. Your sheets are clean, I washed 'em after Hannah left." Kamaria spoke with the wise aura of someone twice her age, but still looking small and lost despite her confident exterior. Temperance nodded and sat on the edge of her bed, shedding her jacket and laying it at the foot of the bed.

"How long have you been here?" Temperance asked, looking up at Kamaria, who shrugged.

"I been here a few times. Don't nobody want me," she said, at first sounding sad, but then looking up at Temperance with a twisted grin. "I'm bad," she added.

"Bad?" Temperance asked. She wasn't used to socializing with people of her own age, so her social skills were rough. Kamaria laughed.

"Ya know, not good?" she said. "I don't listen, don't nobody tell me what to do." Temperance nodded, then shook her head.

"I'm not," she said. "Bad, I mean." Kamaria shrugged.

"You will be," she said. "Just wait. You will be. We all are."

"Why?" Temperance asked. Kamaria shrugged again, her shoulders jumping up and down.

"Why not?" she asked. "We get treated like shit, we treat them like shit." Temperance was slightly taken aback by the girl's coarseness, but was starting to feel like she could understand it. Being pushed from place to place, like an animal, not having anywhere or anything that's really yours.

"How many homes have you been in?" Temperance asked, then cringed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Girl, don't worry," Kamaria said, reaching under the bed and pulling out a book that Temperance recognized instantly as the Holy Bible. She tossed it to Temperance, who barely caught it.

"Flip it open," she said. Temperance opened it to the inside cover and found a list of names that reached, even in Kamaria's small, tidy print, nearly half-way down the page. Temperance counted them—there were 16.

"Wow… sixteen homes?" Temperance asked in awe. Kamaria nodded, almost proudly.

"I been in the system since I was six," she said. "I told you, don't nobody want me." Temperance felt sad for the girl, who didn't seem to even feel sad for herself.

"You gotta start a list too now," Kamaria said to Temperance, who looked up at her, confused.

"Me? Why?" she asked.

"All foster kids got 'em. Families that don't want 'em, that send 'em back. You think mine's long, you should see some of the lists I've seen. Twice as long as mine."

"I don't have a Bible," Temperance said warily. Kamaria shook her head.

"Don't have to be a Bible, don't even have to be a book. Some kids write 'em inside their jacket sleeves, on their shoes, hell, some even get 'em tattooed on 'em," Kamaria explained. Temperance looked down at her feet; she wore a worn pair of black Chucks, the first shoes she grabbed when she was on her way out the door.

"Those'll work," Kamaria said, seeming to read her mind. Kamaria fled the room, returning a minute later with a Sharpie marker. She handed it to Temperance, who slowly took off her left shoe, and flipped it upside down. The sole of her shoe was tan and worn, and the scent of the marker bit her nose as she uncapped it.

"Chaplin?" she asked, and Kamaria nodded.

"Chaplin," she said. Temperance wrote it slowly, in blocky capital letters, on the heel of the shoe. CHAPLIN.

"Welcome to the system," Kamaria said somberly. Suddenly the weight of the day fell on Temperance, who felt inexplicably exhausted.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," she said, pulling back the covers and laying down on the bed, not bothering even to change clothes. Kamaria nodded, walking out the door.

"Good night," she said, flicking the light switch as she left, leaving Temperance in darkness. Down the hall, she heard Janice singing still, melodious voice barely audible over Sienna's helpless cries.

"God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn… seeking an answer to why they were born... winds of misfortune have blown them about... You made the outcasts, don't cast them out…"

* * *

**A/N: **The song that Janice is singing at the end of the fic is "God Bless the Outcasts" as covered by Bette Midler... another 90s relic! Although technically the song didn't come around until 1996 with the release of Disney's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and consequently Bette Midler's cover, I think the song is so touching and beautiful and fitting for the fic that I have to use it anyway!

Like it? Hate it? Think I'm totally off base? Review and let me know!


	3. Yankee Doodle Dandy

**A/N: **I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter so much! I was worried about how it would be received, but apparently my worries were unfounded... thanks again for all of the great reviews! This chapter will be set in the present, but we will be revisiting the past again fairly soon... I want to try to keep a nice balance between the two.

On a darker note, many of you guys are aware from reading Against All Odds that one of my friends was recently hospitalized in a medically-induced coma after a nasty fall caused major head injury. Unfortunately, he was unable to fight his injuries and has since passed away. The world has lost an incredible person, but Heaven has truly gained an angel. I believe that God has a plan for my friend beyond his life here, and as painful as that is to accept... I am fairly certain I will be seeing him again someday. :)

Until then, PLEASE don't forget to tell the special people in your life how much you love them, and never take for granted what could be gone in a heartbeat. This is one of my favorite Mark Twain quotes, and my friend truly embodied it: "Live so that when you die, even the undertaker will be sorry."

With that... read on.

* * *

Brennan took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, bringing her story to a close. Sweets had watched quietly as she recounted the events, not interrupting at any point and allowing her to pause for extended periods of time when necessary.

"That must have been extremely difficult for you to process," he finally said, leaning back into his chair and flipping his notebook shut. Brennan shrugged.

"I got through it," she said, refusing eye contact.

"How long did you stay with Janice at the group home?" he asked.

"Eight days," Brennan replied. "After that, they found a foster family to take me in." Sweets nodded in understanding, letting his eyes flit upwards to the clock poised over the doorframe.

"Let's save that for next time," he said, standing up and offering Brennan the door. She nodded gratefully and left, meeting Booth in the waiting lounge. He was reading June's issue of Southern Living, skimming a section on decoupage.

"Hey," he said, closing the magazine when he realized Brennan was peering over his shoulder. "All ready?"

"Yep," she said airily, leading the way out the door.

"So how was your alone time with Sweets?" Booth asked off-handedly. He didn't want to pry, but he couldn't help asking.

"I didn't know you were interested in decoupage," Brennan replied, making a flying lead-change in conversation. Booth bristled.

"I'm not, geez, I was just waiting. There's nothing good to read in that place," he defended. Brennan smirked.

"You don't have to be ashamed, it's perfectly natural for a man to take an interest in the interior design of his home. It's not just for women and homosexuals anymore, you know," she said.

"I'm not," Booth growled. "Interested, I mean. I was just reading!"

"Relax, I'm just johning," she said.

"It's _joshing_, Bones, not 'johning'," Booth said, rolling his eyes. "And next time I'll bring a book if you guys are going to take an hour."

"Alright then," she replied. He started the car and buckled his seat belt with more force than was necessary.

"Fine," he said.

When they reached the Jeffersonian, Cam and Hodgins were on the platform, discussing the lab reports from Sonja's body that had just come in. When Brennan began walking towards the steps, card key in hand, Booth grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"What?" she asked.

"You can't work on this case, remember?" Booth said, making a pointed face. She rolled her eyes, resting her arms akimbo on her hips.

"This is ridiculous," she said. He shrugged.

"That's the rules, Bones. Go identify four-thousand year old cavemen in Limbo or something," Booth said, walking her in that general direction. She yanked her arm from his grasp and, with one final look of distaste, marched off to Limbo. Cam and Hodgins watched her pass with a bemused grin.

"Why can't she work on this case?" Cam asked, prompting Booth to swipe his I.D. card and join them on the catwalk, which was strewn with photographs, lab reports, and sample specimens.

"Because," Booth said in a low voice, making sure Brennan was well on her way out of the room. "She knows the foster family of the victim personally."

"How personally?" Hodgins asked, but Cam had caught Booth's drift.

"Oh, wow," she said, eyes widening. "That's got to bring some monsters out of the doctor's scary dark places, huh?" Booth shrugged.

"She says it doesn't bother her, but I don't think I believe it," he said.

"Dude, that's pretty heavy," Hodgins said, finally catching on. Cam and Booth sighed collectively.

"No joke," Cam said, shaking her head. "I'll go tell her to take the rest of the day off…"

"No, don't," Booth said, holding his arm out to stop her. "She'd be pissed if she knew I told you, I'd prefer if she thought Caroline told you. And besides, she wouldn't go even if you ordered her to." Cam shrugged; Booth was right.

"Alright, well, if she looks like she's having a hard time, I'm telling _you_ to tell her to go home," Cam said in her authoritarian voice, pointing a finger at Booth. "She's more likely to listen to you anyway." Booth snorted.

"She doesn't listen to anyone," Booth said, but Cam shook her head.

"She respects you as her partner, if you told her to go home, she'd go," she argued.

"She respects you Cam, you're her boss!" he said. She continued to shake her head.

"No, not really. She respects my work, and she respects me as a person, but she does not respect my authority, even after two years of working under me. And she definitely doesn't listen to me—sometimes I think she asks for my good graces to humor me, not for actual permission," Cam explained, halfway between annoyed and amused. "I may be her boss on paper, but you know as well as I do, Seeley; nobody tells Temperance Brennan what to do." Booth thought about it, then nodded slowly. Cam was right.

"Okay, I'll keep an eye on her," Booth said.

"I knew you would," Cam said, turning her attention to the chemical analysis reports in front of her. Booth stepped off of the platform, and moseyed his way towards Limbo.

When he got there, Brennan was elbow-deep in a box of human bones, sorting them out on a light table. She had already laid out several ribs and a few small hand bones when he appeared on the opposite side of the table, resting his elbows against the edge and peering up at her.

"Caveman?" he asked with his signature cheeseball grin. She shook her head, suppressing a smile.

"I'm still mad at you," she said, and he shook his head, letting it dip so that his forehead nearly touched the table.

"No you're not," he said, and she sighed.

"Fine, I'm not," she admitted. "And no, not a caveman. Although in reality the layman's perception of what a _caveman_ is doesn't really exist; humans didn't dwell primarily in caves at any point in our—"

"Yeah yeah, okay, I won't call 'em that anymore. What's the, uh, 'anthropologically correct' name?"

"It depends on what kind of skeleton it is," she said. "But I think from you I'd accept 'primitive human'."

"Gee, thanks Bones, that's a real concession coming from you," he said sarcastically, and she broke a smile. He stood up straight, stretching his arms up above his head, then relaxing his shoulders.

"So who was this guy, then?" he asked, less out of interest and more to get her talking about something she liked talking about, instead of thinking about something she didn't.

"_She_—" she started, "—was a sixteen year old living roughly around the time of the American Revolution, mid to late eighteenth century. And this," she said, holding up a rib that bore cracks and what looked almost like a large puncture wound, "is where she was shot by the gun of a British soldier. Bullet damage matches."

"Wow," Booth said, actually finding himself interested. "Talk about a patriot."

"One of the very first," Brennan said, laying the rib back on the table. "From the damage pattern and force of impact, it wasn't an accidental hit either. She died fighting for something, or someone."

"And to think, women weren't even allowed to vote, but they were fighting for this country," Booth said in awe, swelling with pride. Brennan nodded, and he took a deep, affirming breath.

"God, I love America!" he proclaimed, pounding his fist on his chest. "Right there, Bones, do ya hear it? That's the sound of freedom," he said, bringing his face very close to hers and grinning stupidly. She laughed, pushing him away and shaking her head.

"_I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, Yankee Doodle, do or die!_" Booth sang, the sound of his deep, slightly off-key voice reverberating throughout Limbo. "_A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the Fourth of July!_" Brennan's laughter escalated, the tinkling sound echoing as well. By the time they were both reduced to giggles, Cam had poked her head into the doorway, bemused expression on her face.

"Are you two doing alright in here?" she asked, and Booth nodded, trying to assemble himself between hitched laughter.

"We're fine," Brennan said, wiping a humor-induced tear from the corner of her eye, trying to maintain some semblance of self-control. Cam rolled her eyes and smiled.

"Okay then, just checking," she said, leaving the two to dissolve in another fit of laughter. When they finally calmed themselves, Booth looked up at Brennan standing across the table, his face melting into a look of deep care and concern.

"You're okay, right?" he asked, his tone serious. Brennan's smile faded, and she bit her bottom lip. Finally she nodded.

"Yeah, I'll be okay," she said. They stared at each other from across the table for a tense moment, feeling an almost palpable connection tie them to each other. Then Brennan broke Booth's gaze, and he too stared at the bones lying between them, focusing on the skull's empty sockets.

"It's a shame," he said.

"What is?" Brennan asked.

"After all she fought, after all she lost, nobody will ever really know who she is," he said, looking up at Brennan. For some reason, she felt like he wasn't talking entirely about the Jane Doe on the table. She shook her head.

"I'll find her," she said. "The world will know who she is, I'll make sure of that."

When Brennan walked into her apartment that night, she locked the door quietly behind her, then dropped her things by the door. She immediately entered her bedroom, flicking on the light and dropping to her knees. She crawled into the small space between the bed frame and the floor, rooting through boxes of winter clothes and knick-knacks until she found a very old, worn-out cardboard box. The corners were patched with duct tape, and the ink on the sides was nearly rubbed off completely, so that she could not tell what the box had even been used for originally.

She pulled out from beneath the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor, her back leaned against the bedside table. She brought the box into her lap and traced swirls into the thick dust on the lid. When she had covered it in designs she pulled it off, setting it aside.

Inside of the box was an old, extraordinarily worn pair of black Chucks, and an equally worse-for-the-wear Bible. She opened up the Bible to the inside cover, eyes tracing the small, neat print for the first time in fifteen years. On the inside page in faded ink she read the dedication:

_Presented to Kamaria Johnson  
__by Janice Chaplin  
on November 12__th__, 1986_

Brennan touched her fingers to the words, shutting her eyes and wondering what Booth would think if he knew these were the most meaningful words to her out of any Bible.

* * *

**A/N:** Thoughts? Review and let me know! :)


	4. Pad Thai and Puppies

**A/N:** Sorry that it's taken so long to update! Life has been insane lately... my friend just passed away, and now my best friend of 13 years is in the hospital, and on top of that I am moving in a week's time and have put off packing until the last possible moment (which has turned out to be a really awful idea, as one might assume). I am also very sad because I cannot bring my cat and dog to my new place, so they have to go live with my mom for at least the next year. :( I wish I could keep them with me but for the time being, financial constraints have put me in a housing situation that does not allow pets.

Anyway, now that I'm done boring you with my life story xD... this chapter doesn't really progress the story very much... but it does have lots of wonderful B/B interaction which I know you love so I'm not apologizing. :) Enjoy!

* * *

It was nearing one in the morning, and Brennan had yet to find sleep. She'd sat up in bed for a while, caught up in thought, then migrated to the living room where she had rearranged her vast CD collection. Once they were alphabetized by genre, artist, and album title, and there was no possible way they could be further organized, she moved into the kitchen. She turned the water hot and rooted around under the sink for a pair of yellow gloves. Once she had scrubbed virtually every surface of the kitchen, she moved into the bathroom, and was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor around the base of the toilet with a strong bleach mixture when she heard a knock at the door.

She smiled knowingly as she approached the door and peered through the peephole; it was Booth, as she had expected, with a box laden with Pad Thai in tow.

"Wooh, why do you reek?" Booth asked as he entered, noting the strong chlorine smell that had permeated Brennan's clothes and hair.

"I was cleaning," she explained, closing the door softly behind him and watching curiously as he brought the neatly stacked boxes of food into the living room, setting the box on the coffee table and making himself at home. She sat down next to him on the couch, pulling her legs up underneath her and reaching for a carton of noodles laden with egg, fish sauce, and vegetables.

They sat in silence as they ate, Brennan opting to use the disposable chopsticks provided by the restaurant while Booth commandeered a fork from her cutlery drawer, twisting his noodles around the prongs like spaghetti.

"So, how are things coming on the case?" Brennan finally asked, after Booth had powered through a carton and a half of noodles and she was nearing the bottom of her first. He shrugged.

"Alright," he said. "No real leads so far, but we've narrowed down cause of death to blunt force trauma to the skull." Brennan nodded, twisting her chopsticks in the noodles.

"It's a lot harder," Booth added, and Brennan looked up.

"What is?" she asked.

"Working a case without you," he said. Brennan smiled.

"You miss me," she said, and he shook his head.

"No I don't!" he said, and Brennan laughed.

"Yes you do!" she said. "You miss me."

"I do not miss you," he flatly denied. "I miss your expertise, that's all. Not having you or Zack, we had to bring in one of our FBI forensics guys and let me tell you, they don't know crap compared to you." Brennan nodded smugly.

"Yeah, and you miss me," she said, and Booth threw his hands up in the air in mock defeat.

"Fine, and I miss you!" he said, laughing. Brennan joined in, and they laughed until they heard a loud thump from the floor beneath them.

"Oh, cool your jets!" Booth shouted, stomping his foot heavily on the floor. They heard the muted grumblings of an old man, then silence.

"Oops," Brennan whispered sheepishly. "Downstairs neighbors… I'd forgotten how late it is." Booth and Brennan simultaneously looked to the clock on the opposite wall—the small hand was caught between one and two, the large one pointing due left.

"It's getting late," Booth said, rubbing his hand backwards over his short hair. Brennan set down the last of her cold noodles, chopsticks sticking straight up out of the center like a small monument.

"Yeah, you should probably get home so you can sleep?" Brennan said, posing it as more of a question than a suggestion. Booth looked up.

"Oh, well no, I took tomorrow off," he said. "But I mean, if you're tired I don't want to keep you up."

"You're not," Brennan said quickly. "Keeping me up, I mean."

"Oh," Booth said brightly. "You're not either."

"Huh?" Brennan said.

"Keeping me up, I meant," Booth said. Brennan's mouth made a small 'O' shape and they were silent, taking each other in from opposite ends of the couch.

"So I guess you're not kicking me out?" Booth said cautiously, and Brennan shut her eyes and smiled, shaking her head.

"No, please stay," she said. "If you want to. I can't sleep anyway."

"Me either," Booth said. Brennan looked up curiously.

"Why not?" she asked. He shook his head as if it were trivial.

"Don't worry about it," he said, rubbing his temples. She shrugged, leaning back into the couch. He leaned back as well, both of them facing the adjacent wall where the television used to sit.

"I wish you had a TV," Booth said. Brennan sighed.

"I kind of wish I had one too," she said. Booth looked over to her, and she slowly turned to face him, and he smiled mischievously.

"Wanna go to Wal-mart?" he asked. Brennan gave him a quizzical look.

"Wal-mart? It's two in the morning!" she said, and Booth stood up, shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter, they're like Waffle House, they never close," he explained, grabbing Brennan by her wrist and pulling her to her feet. "Come on, let's get you a TV."

"Right now?" she asked incredulously, as he dragged her towards the door, grabbing his keys from the dining room table as they passed it.

"Yes, right now," he said, and she allowed herself to be ushered out the door.

"If you say so," she said, following him downstairs to his SUV. They drove through the night, neither of them tired, about half an hour outside of the city until they found a very large, well-lit Wal-mart. The parking lot was empty save for a few ratty cars in the very back spots, and a group of loitering teenagers near the automatic doors.

The store was virtually empty when they entered, a loop track from the 90s playing over the intercom speakers. Booth bobbed his head to Smash Mouth as it buzzed faintly in the background, Brennan grabbing a cart and wheeling it towards electronics.

"_She was lookin' kinda dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead…_" Booth sang under his breath as he caught up to Brennan, bumping her aside with his hip and taking control of the cart. She smirked and shook her head, still wondering how she got roped into a two-AM Wal-mart run.

"I know that one," she said, catching up to him as they approached the vast wall of TVs.

"The song?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Yep," she said.

"Of course you do, everyone knows All Star," he said. "It's a classic."

"Well you're always making fun of my insufficient knowledge of pop culture," Brennan defended. "So I'm just saying, I know this song."

"Well congratulations," Booth said, attention diverted to the glowing television screens that all simultaneously played and replayed a clip of Happy Feet. Brennan looked up as well, eyebrows knitted.

"That's wrong," she said. "Penguins don't dance."

"Lighten up, Bones," Booth said with a chuckle. "It's just a movie." They perused the wall of screens, finally selecting a moderately sized plasma screen.

"Holy crap Bones," Booth said, taking a price ticket from next to the television with the SKU number for the cashier. "Fifteen-hundred dollars?"

"I can afford it," she said lightly. "Besides, if I'm going to waste my money on a television, it might as well be a good one." Booth shrugged, not one to argue with her logic. As they headed towards check-out, Booth suddenly veered to the left.

"Jackpot, baby!" he said as he approached a large, disorganized wire bin. "Two-for-ten's!"

"Two-for-whats?" Brennan asked, peering over the edge of the large, square container, which contained a disarray of DVDs.

"Five dollar DVDs, two for ten," Booth explained, sifting through the endless pile.

"That seems like a good deal," Brennan said, eyeballing the scattered DVDs like they were remains.

"It's a great deal, are you kidding me?" Booth replied, now elbow-deep in various titles. "Do you have this one?" he asked, holding up a copy of _Joe Dirt_. Brennan shook her head.

"You do now," he said, tossing it into the cart with the large box that contained the TV. Brennan joined him, carefully sifting through the entertainment detritus, picking up each case individually, reading the brief abstract on the back, then setting it aside. Her style was refined in contrast to Booth, who reached as deeply as he could into the pile, brought forth a new heap of titles, then tossed them haphazardly to his left and right as he read the front.

"Is this one any good?" Brennan asked, holding up a copy of _Children of the Corn III: Urban Harvest_. Booth made a face like he had just smelled something rotten.

"The original was scary as hell, but that one—" he grabbed the movie from her hand, tossing it across the bin, "—is just frighteningly bad."

After another ten minutes of sifting, they rang up Brennan's purchases and walked out of the store with a TV plus _Joe Dirt, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Citizen Kane, _and _Homeward Bound._ As Booth drove them back towards Brennan's place, she read the backs of the DVD cases, squinting through the darkness at the words.

"What's this one about?" she asked, holding up the _Homeward Bound_ DVD. Booth smiled.

"Just a little feel-good movie for ya, Bones," he said, turning into Brennan's apartment complex. "It's Parker's favorite."

It was almost three-thirty by the time Booth had the TV mounted to the wall, wires snaking from the back of the TV to the outlet below, and to the DVD player. Brennan stifled a yawn, and Booth raised his eyebrows.

"Tired?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"Nope," she said, handing him the _Homeward Bound_ DVD. "I want to watch this movie. If it's Parker's favorite, it must be good." Booth grinned, popping the DVD into the player and sinking into the couch cushions, remote control in hand. Brennan grabbed a throw that was lying over the back of the couch, spreading it over her lap and resting her feet on the coffee table.

As the movie played, Brennan's yawns increased in frequency. Occasionally she slumped over in Booth's direction, but as soon as she touched his shoulder she would right herself, rubbing her eyes and continuing to follow the story.

"Oh no, does the cat make it?" she asked as Sassy went flying over the waterfall's edge. Booth shook his head.

"Nope, she dies," he said.

"What?!" Brennan exclaimed, having taken a particular fondness to the feisty feline. Booth chuckled.

"I'm just kidding, Bones. Sheesh, it's a kid's movie, do you really think they'd kill the cat?"

"They kill characters in children's stories all the time," Brennan argued.

"Like who?" Booth asked.

"Well, for starters, Mufasa," Brennan said, and Booth's mouth hung agape.

"How did you know that?" he asked incredulously, and Brennan smiled.

"I'm full of surprises," she said, the end of 'surprises' warped by an unexpected yawn.

"Okay fine, but who else?" Booth challenged, and Brennan held up her hand, so as to count on her fingers.

"Bambi's mother, Tarzan's parents, Nemo's mother, Littlefoot's mother, Mogli's parents, Charlie in _All Dogs Go to Heaven_, both dogs from _Where the Red Fern Grows_, the deer in _The Yearling_, the mother sheep in _Babe_, the mother in _Fly Away Home_, at least half of the characters in _Harry Potter_…"

"Okay, okay, you made your point," Booth said, in a mild state of shock. "_How_ exactly do you know all this?"

"Last year I helped a grad student conduct research on the anthropological significance of character death in children's media," she said simply, as if that explained everything.

"Oh," was all Booth said, sighing loudly before turning back to the movie. They watched the next twenty or so minutes in silence, and when Booth tried to ask Brennan if she wanted anything to drink, she waved him off, engrossed in the story. Booth smirked as he rose to get a beer from the fridge, returning to find Brennan leaned in towards the screen, throw blanket jammed up in her fists, watching anxiously as Shadow tried to climb out of the mud pit.

"_You've learned all you need to know, Chance,_" Shadow's character said weakly, Brennan hanging on every word. "_Now all you need to learn is how to say goodbye…_" Booth heard a loud sniff, and turned to see Brennan wiping away at her face.

"Are you _crying_?" he asked, and she shook her head furiously.

"No!" she said, setting her jaw. He left her alone and turned his attention back to the screen as the Seaver kids played basketball in the yard. He felt a lump rise in his throat as the little boy—who reminded him greatly of Parker—listened to the sound of dogs barking in the distance. He felt his heart jump when Chance came running over the crest of the hill, leaping into Jamie's arms. He grinned when Sassy came scampering through the yard, leaping into Hope's arms. And when Shadow appeared at the top of the hill, saying just one word—"_Peter._"—he heard Brennan give an involuntary gasp. He looked to his left and saw her, face half-buried in the throw, tears streaming down her face. He smiled as she wept for the moment into the blanket, eyes glued to the screen glowing in the dark room as Peter hugged Shadow, the entire family reunited.

"I told you it was a good movie," Booth said as the credits began to roll, Brennan wiping her face. She smiled, sniffling loudly.

"I feel like an idiot," she said, and Booth shook his head.

"Trust me, I cried the first time I watched it. So did Rebecca," he said. "I don't think it's possible to watch that movie and not cry."

"You need to tell Parker for me that he has very good taste in movies," Brennan said, and Booth laughed.

"I'll do that, he'd love to hear that coming from you," Booth said. Brennan gave him a funny look.

"Why's that?" she asked, as Booth removed the DVD from the player, leaving the wide screen a vivid electric blue.

"Because he thinks you're so cool," Booth said, and Brennan felt that odd sensation in her throat like she was about to tear up again. Parker thought she was cool?

"Really?" she said, and Booth turned to face her, cocking his head slightly to the side as he surveyed her.

"Yeah, really," he finally said. "He always asks about you when I talk to him. He asks me, How's Bones, daddy?" Brennan smiled, cheeks still shining in the blue light from her emotional moment, and Booth couldn't help but think she looked cute.

"That's really sweet," Brennan said, voice thick. "Tell him I think about him too. He's a great kid, Booth." Booth swelled with pride at the remark, the way parents are wont to do when their children are praised.

"I will," he said, nodding. He looked up to the clock—four thirty. Brennan yawned, and this time he mimicked the action, jaw stretching wide.

"I think I'm tired now," Brennan said, rising from the couch and picking up the blanket, folding it and laying it over the back of the couch. Booth nodded. Brennan looked out the window hesitantly, then back to Booth.

"I don't think you should drive home, you're too tired," she said. Booth shrugged.

"I'll be alright," he said, but Brennan shook her head.

"No, it's so easy to fall asleep at the wheel… I don't want anything to happen to you," she said, wishing she could reel the words back in as soon as she said them, in favor of something more neutral. Oh well, it was four-thirty in the morning, she was allowed her Freudian slips. Booth shrugged again, this time suppressing a smile.

"Okay, if you insist, I'll crash on the couch tonight," he said, loosening his tie and landing on the couch cushions. Brennan nodded in agreement, picking up the blanket and tossing it to him.

"I'll get you a pillow, hold on," she said, entering her bedroom and retrieving one of the pillows off of her bed. She tossed it to him from across the room and he caught it over his head like a fluffy football.

"Good night, Booth," Brennan said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, lit from behind by the lamplight. Booth's eyes traced the dark silhouette that spoke to him, and he nodded, looking down at the pillow in his lap.

"Good night, Bones," he said. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaving him awash in cold blue light.

He grabbed the remote and with a click submerged himself in darkness, laying the pillow at one end of the couch and stretching out, covering himself with the blanket that was still warm from her use. He pressed his face into the pillow and inhaled; it smelled just like her. A scent that was a soft mixture of tea, lavender, and sleep. Taking in another deep breath, he curled up into the couch, letting her smell pull him under.

* * *

**A/N: **  
1. I do not own ANY of the movies or books mentioned in this chapter. Everything belongs to who it belongs to, i.e. NOT ME.  
2. If you've seen _Homeward Bound_, YOU KNOW YOU CRIED WHEN PETER AND SHADOW WERE REUNITED. Don't even try to deny it. I cried, you cried, it's impossible not to cry. I'm not just talking misty eyes either, but big crocodile tears.  
3. If you haven't seen _Homeward Bound_... go rent it. Now. I'm serious... do it. It's the best movie ever. You might even be able to find it online on a well-known site that hosts video clips... ahem... not that I'm naming any one in particular...  
4. If you enjoyed/hated/had any feeling whatsoever about this chapter, please review and let me know! :)


	5. Three, Four, Hit the Floor

**A/N:** This chapter is really long. It just kept going... and going... and going. I was thinking about continuing it ever further and breaking it up into two separate chapters, but I figured that I already gave you two kind of sweet, relationship-y chapters in a row, you don't really need another one... and that's kind of how this chapter starts off. But don't worry, we get back into Brennan's story during the second half. So with that... enjoy. :)

* * *

When Brennan awoke the next morning, she was struck by the level of noise in her apartment. It wasn't so much that it was loud, but more that it wasn't totally silent. Every morning for the past several years, she had woken up to a quiet, peaceful apartment. But this morning she could hear the sounds of applause, mechanical jingles, and a prototypical 'announcer's voice' in the next room.

She pulled a robe on over her nightclothes and padded into the living room, where she found Booth kicked back on the couch in the same clothes he had worn the night before, eating a bowl of cereal and watching a game show. When he became aware of her presence he lifted his spoon in greeting, chewing and swallowing the mouthful of cereal before he spoke.

"Hey, I didn't know if you were ever going to wake up," he said, gesturing towards the clock on the wall—it was ten thirty in the morning.

"Oh shit," she said, eyes flitting to the window to confirm that yes, the sun was already high in the sky. "I have to call Cam and tell her—"

"I already did, relax," Booth said. "I told her you were taking the day off."

"Why?" Brennan asked, slightly aggravated.

"Because you don't have anything to do there," Booth said. Brennan sighed loudly, arms akimbo.

"I have plenty I can do, Booth! There are tons of skeletons in Limbo that need identification; you know, the work the Jeffersonian actually _pays_ me to do," she said, and Booth made a face.

"Well excuse me for wanting you to get some sleep," he said sarcastically, jamming another spoonful of cereal into his mouth and continuing to speak, words muffled. "I just thought maybe you'd like to rest since you've had so much going on lately." Brennan considered this, then flopped down on the couch next to him, jaw set.

"Fine," she said.

"Fine?" he repeated.

"Yes, fine. I accept that. Thank you," she said, watching the TV as contestants spun a large wheel with numbers along the side, ranging from five to the glittery, coveted '100'.

"You're welcome," he said, seeming pleased with himself.

"What is this?" she asked after a minute, as a pleasant old man with a thin microphone ushered contestants across the stage, where they guessed the prices of items after listening to audience members scream arbitrary numbers at them.

"Don't tell me you've never watched The Price is Right?" he said, setting his empty bowl and spoon on the table and gesturing towards the screen.

"Is that what this is called?" she asked. Booth groaned.

"Yes, Bones, that's the name of the show. The Price is Right. It's a game show. I don't suppose you've ever watched a game show before?"

"Yes I've watched a game show before," she said snappishly, leaning back and crossing her arms. "It's just been a while."

"Well, this is the best one on TV. You start with some item, like a…" Booth explained the premise of The Price is Right to Brennan, pausing as she made a bowl of oatmeal, and explained the proceedings of the show as they watched. An hour later they were deeply engrossed in Family Feud, shouting out answers to the Fast Cash prompts.

"_Something you would take with you on a picnic,_" the announcer prompted.

"A blanket!" Booth shouted at the television.

"Bugspray!" Brennan screamed.

"Uh… a CD player?" the contestant answered hesitantly. Booth and Brennan groaned loudly, shaking their heads as the woman continued to give bogus answers.

"I remember this show from when I was a kid," Brennan said as the announcer revealed the number one answers. "Dad loved it."

"You guys should go on it," Booth said. Brennan laughed.

"What, the Brennan Criminal Unit? On Family Feud? Sounds dangerous," Brennan said, quoting Caroline Julian's description of her family's gathering. Booth laughed, and flicked the remote at the TV, turning it off. He got up and stretched, looking at the clock.

"You should get ready, we have to run soon," he said, noticing that it was almost noon. Brennan gave him a quizzical look.

"I thought we had the day off?" she said. He nodded.

"From work, not from Sweets," he said. "You have an appointment in an hour." Brennan made a sour face and got up, retreating to the shower to wash the night off of her. Reemerging feeling fresh, she was dressed and ready quickly. When she walked back into the living room it was empty, and she found Booth in the kitchen, making a sandwich.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming, hold on," he said, rinsing the knife and plate in the sink and cramming the last of a turkey sandwich into his mouth, trying to swallow it down without choking. When they turned out of Brennan's apartment complex onto the main road, Booth hung a left, instead of traveling right in the direction of Sweets's office.

"Where are we going?" Brennan asked.

"I got a call from Rebecca while you were in the shower," Booth explained. "Parker's not feeling well and needs to be picked up from basketball camp, but she's stuck in court all day. So I'm gonna pick him up, drop you off with Sweets, take him to Rebecca's mom, then come back and get you."

"You know you can take me back to the apartment, I can drive myself so you can take Parker home with you," she said, but he shook his head.

"I have some stuff I have to work on anyway, it's better for Parker to just take him to his grandma's and let him sleep it off there while I'm working," he said.

"I thought you took the day off," Brennan asked.

"I did," Booth said. Brennan's brows knitted.

"So what are you working on?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Nothing."

"So if it's nothing, why don't you stay with Parker for the day?" Brennan asked. Booth turned and gave her an exasperated look.

"For Christ's sake, leave it alone!" he said. "I have work to do that isn't _work_ work, okay? It's personal work. Besides, my weekend with him starts tonight, so I'll have the next few days with him." Brennan pursed her lips, still curious as to what the _non-work_ work was that he was up to, but decided not to press the matter. Soon they had pulled up to St. Catherine's Interparish Catholic School, and Booth put the car in park, leaving the keys in the ignition and Brennan in the passenger's seat.

"I'll be right back," he said, leaving Brennan in his wake as he entered the very large, very old brick building. Children dribbled basketballs up and down the fenced-in court on the side of the school's main building; Brennan suspected they were part of the camp Parker was attending. Soon Booth came from the building with Parker in tow, the little boy looking peaky and moving slowly. Booth opened the back driver's side door and with one quick sweep lifted Parker into the seat, letting the child buckle himself in. He waved to Brennan as Booth shut the door, and she smiled and waved back.

"Hey Parker," she said. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead let out a wet, noisy cough. When he caught his breath, he tried again.

"Hey Dr. Bones," he said, voice gritty. Booth put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot, school shrinking behind them as they retraced their prior route, this time moving in the direction of Sweets's office. Brennan kept eyeing Parker in the rear-view mirror; his head rested against the window, his eyes fluttering open and shut.

Though his face had been pale earlier, his cheeks were now flushed; Booth was going to be dealing with one sick kid this weekend. Suddenly he sneezed into his hands, and looked up sheepishly as snot coated his fingers. Brennan grimaced and handed the poor kid a handkerchief from her purse, which he used to mop up his face and hands.

"Thank you, Bones," Parker said in a small voice, offering her back the hankie. She took it gingerly with her thumb and index finger, and Booth laughed.

"Here, I'll take it," he said, grabbing it without reservation and stuffing it into his pants pocket. Brennan looked back and watched Parker doze off, lulled by the hum of the SUV's wheels against the paved road. When Booth parked the car in front of the office building Sweets was located in, Parker opened his eyes, looking out the window at the foreign surroundings.

"Where are we?" he asked. "I thought we were going to grandma's."

"We are, kiddo," Booth said. "We just have to drop off Bones real quick."

"For what?" Parker asked.

"To see a friend," Booth replied. Parker made a face.

"I thought you were her friend," he said. Booth nodded.

"I am, but this is another one of her friends; a special friend," he said, trying to conceal a grin as the words escaped his lips.

"Hmmm," Parker said, seeming to understand. "Do you have lots of special friends, Bones?"

"No, she doesn't," Booth cut in before Brennan could answer. Parker made a face.

"Oh," Parker said. "Maggie Kitner's mom has lots of special friends." Brennan snorted and concealed the sound with a feigned cough, while Booth's jaw set.

"Remind me not to let him hang out at Maggie Kitner's house," he said under his breath, shaking his head. Brennan let herself out of the passenger's side, and as she left the car she heard a whining noise. She turned and saw Parker's arms outstretched, lip pouting, a combination that very clearly said, _hug me_. Brennan leaned into the back seat and gave the small boy a hug, feeling the heat ripple off of him as she did so. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead; he was burning up.

"Booth, his fever is pretty high," she said as she retreated back into the front seat. "I can have Angela pick me up later, you should really stay with him."

"Are you sure?" Booth said, and she nodded.

"Definitely, it's not an issue, I know she'll do it. Go be with Parker," she said. Booth gave her a look of gratitude and peered into the back seat, where Parker had already begun to fall into a fevered nap, frowning in his sleep.

"Thanks, Bones," he said. They smiled simultaneously, and Brennan exited the car, entering the building without another look back.

"I had wondered if you were coming," Sweets said as he ushered Brennan into his office, closing the door behind them. She looked up at the clock—she was twenty minutes late.

"I'm sorry, Booth drove me and we had to pick up Parker and—"

"I thought Agent Booth had the day off?" Sweets asked.

"How did you know?" Brennan asked. Sweets smiled knowingly.

"I _know_ these things, Dr. Brennan," he said smugly, leaning back into his desk chair. "I also know that you took the day off. Why?"

"That wasn't my doing," Brennan said quickly. "Booth called in for me." Sweets made a face caught between a smile and understanding, and looked her over as if he were searching for evidence of his conclusion.

"Why did Agent Booth do that, d'you think?" Sweets asked, fighting a smile. Brennan scowled at him.

"He brought me dinner last night," she said. "We went to Wal-mart and bought a TV and watched a movie about two dogs and a cat who travel across the Sierra-Nevadas to find their way home and then it was late and I didn't want him to drive home that tired so he spent the night. He slept on my couch." She said it all very fast and matter-of-factly, and it took Sweets a moment to process everything she had said.

"Dinner, Wal-mart, Sierra-Nevada Mountains, couch. Got it," he said, flipping his yellow notepad to a new sheet of paper and taking a few shorthand notes.

"Okay," Brennan said uncomfortably.

"Okay," Sweets said, mirroring her discomfort with equal and opposite joy. "So last time you were here we talked about the night you went into the system, am I right?" Brennan nodded.

"And you were with Janice for how long?" he asked.

"Eight days," she said, feeling like she was being tested. "I already said that."

"I'm just making sure my notes are correct, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said lightly, taking more scrawly notes. "So on January 7th, 1992, you went into your next home, right?"

"That would be eight days after December 30th, yes," she said tartly.

"Just checking my math," Sweets said, looking up at her from his pad of paper. "Do you remember the names of your next foster parents?" Brennan hesitated to respond, biting the inside of her cheek for a moment.

"Dennison," she said. "Chuck and Leslie."

"And were they fit foster parents?" Sweets asked, trying to find the correct wording for his question.

"On paper," Brennan said, features darkening. "They were great on paper."

_January 7__th__, 1992_

Temperance lay on her back on the worn-out couch, a hand-made quilted throw draped over her body. Russ's old duffle bag lay at the end of the couch, packed and ready. She was waiting for The Prune—her new name for the social worker assigned to her case—to pick her up. They had found a family willing to take her in, so she was leaving the group home today to meet them. If all went well at their lunch meeting, meaning that she didn't light anything on fire or 'shank' (a word Kamaria had recently taught her the meaning of) her prospective foster parents, she would go home with them. The Prune hadn't said what would happen if all didn't go well.

Suddenly the sound of a baby crying snapped her out of her thoughts, and she rolled over onto her feet—_whoa, head rush_—and headed in the direction of the noise. After a week she had learned that if you just held Sienna for long enough, she would stop crying. She had never been one of those girls who went gaga for babies, but she felt sorry for Sienna and decided that if she could at least make her feel a little better, she would.

"Hey," she said, announcing her presence at the edge of the crib. The baby, red-faced and tight fisted, opened her blue eyes momentarily to see who had come to her rescue before she continued screaming. Temperance reached into the crib and pulled her out, setting her on her hip and bouncing up and down. She made soft hushing noises and spun in little circles, making herself dizzy but appeasing the baby. She held Sienna with one arm and stroked her soft, wispy blonde hair with the other hand. The baby took Temperance's fingers in her pudgy hand and stuffed them in her mouth, and Temperance laughed.

"Gross," she said, taking her fingers out of the baby's mouth and wiping them on her jeans. She suddenly stopped spinning when she realized there were two figures standing in the nursery doorway—Janice and The Prune. Sienna's cries returned as Temperance stood still, eyeing the two of them warily. She knew why he was here—she had even been waiting for him to get here earlier—but it didn't really make her feel any better. She had just begun to settle into the rhythm of the group home, and now they were taking her somewhere else.

"All ready?" The Prune asked, peering at her through large square frames. She nodded wordlessly, setting Sienna back down in her crib. The baby began to truly howl, and Temperance stroked her wet cheek with her fingers before walking away. She saw Mr. Chaplin standing next to the front door with her bag slung over his shoulder, and as she pulled her jacket off of the hook next to the door, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Good luck," was all he said, and she nodded. As she buttoned up the jacket over her fleece pullover, Janice tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"Now you got everything, right?" she asked, and Temperance nodded. There wasn't much to gather, so she knew it was all there.

"She'll be fine," The Prune said cheerily, opening the front door and letting the cold air in. "Come on, Temperance, we don't want to be late." Janice looked at the small, forlorn girl in front of her, who was at least her height but still just a child. She swept Temperance into a hug and held her close.

"You'll be alright," she said, stroking her hair before letting her go. She nodded to Temperance, who nodded back, and with that The Prune ushered her out the door and into the snow, leaving the group home behind.

As Temperance stepped into The Prune's Oldsmobile, she looked up at the second floor where the room she and Kamaria shared was. In the window she saw several pairs of eyes looking down at her. They didn't wave, or even acknowledge that Temperance had seen them—they just watched. Temperance felt her hand shoot up and her fingers wiggle in a small good-bye, and she saw one in particular push their way to the front, waving back. Temperance got in the car and tried not to cry.

"Oh, don't fret," The Prune said, noticing her sadness. "The Dennisons are very nice, you'll do well there. Trust me."

How could Temperance possibly begin to verbalize her distrust? For him, for this new family, for the entire foster care system and every person in her life? For the parents who abandoned her, for the brother who left her behind? For every feeling she felt, for the emotions that betrayed her and a system that didn't really see her at all? She was invisible; she was a chair being moved from place to place. She couldn't trust him… she couldn't trust anybody. The only person she believed in was Kamaria, and only because she told the God-honest truth, no sugar. And she told her not to trust anybody.

"There they are," The Prune said, motioning to a couple standing in the blistering cold outside of a 50s-style diner. The man was tall and built, with a ruddy face and crossed arms. The woman was small, so small she looked as if she might blow away in the wind. She had a simpering smile and small features, almost more like a child being dragged around than a mother of any kind. Temperance and The Prune approached the couple and The Prune introduced them, Temperance waving briefly in greeting.

They spent about an hour in the diner eating together, Chuck Dennison telling loud, boisterous stories about the factory while his wife tittered at all the right places. The Prune continually removed his glasses and wiped them on the inside of his jacket, replacing them and nodding exaggeratedly as Chuck's stories progressed. Nobody seemed to notice Temperance, which was honestly fine with her; she sipped her strawberry milkshake and pushed the pieces of chicken and vegetables in her soup around with the spoon, not really hungry.

Finally Chuck stood up, announcing his readiness to hit the road. Leslie jumped up like her chair was on fire, emptying her pocket for the tip when Chuck went out to the parking lot to crank up the truck without leaving one. Leslie smiled apologetically at them, then followed Chuck out the door. The Prune lead Temperance back to his car to retrieve her things, then shuffled tentatively towards the truck, Temperance following close behind.

"Toss that up in the back," Chuck yelled over the roar of the diesel engine, and Temperance obeyed, slinging the duffle bag into the truck bed and hoping the picture frame was padded well enough by her clothes. She crawled up into the truck, Leslie scooting over into the middle of the bench seat to make room for Temperance. The Prune shut the door and waved as Chuck lit a cigarette and backed out of the parking space, leaving The Prune to choke on his exhaust as he sped off towards the highway.

They rode for a while without speaking, the radio blaring a fuzzy AM station that Chuck only seemed to half listen to. After a while he turned it off and turned his attention to Temperance.

"So, what's your name again?" he asked, talking around the cigarette butt still stuck between his lips.

"Temperance," she said. He made a face.

"That's a weird-ass name," he said. Leslie gave him an admonishing look, which he returned with a glare that quickly turned her eyes to her lap. He spoke again.

"So Temperance, what happened to your folks?"

"I don't know," she said, which was the honest truth; she didn't know. He scoffed.

"Oh come on, what kind of bullshit answer is that?" he said loudly, causing Temperance to cringe.

"I don't know," she repeated, not knowing what else to say. He flicked the cigarette nub out the window, lighting up another one.

"Come on now, I'm the one puttin' your food on the table, I deserve some answers. What happened to your parents?"

"Chuck, she said she doesn't—"

"Did I ask you?" Chuck roared in Leslie's face, flicking ashes on her blouse with the movement of his jaw. Temperance's breath caught in her chest as she subconsciously pushed herself back towards the window. After a few tense seconds, Chuck seemed to relax again, and he took another long draw from his cigarette before turning the radio back on.

"Fine, if you don't wanna talk about it, I won't ask ya no more," he said, and he didn't.

They listened to a poorly received bass fishing radio show for the remainder of their forty-five minute drive into the back hills of Illinois, while Chuck powered through the rest of his pack of cigarettes and Leslie watched the road in silent repentance. Temperance sat stiffly in her seat, the whistling hum of the diesel engine encouraging her to take a nap, but she didn't dare close her eyes. Somehow she had already figured out that when Chuck was around, it was safest to keep both eyes open.

* * *

**A/N:** Don't worry, you'll be hearing more about Brennan's time with Chuck and Leslie in the next chapter. I just figured I should stop now before it got TOO ridiculously long.

Like it? Hate it? My coworker gave me her cold, make me feel better and review. :)


	6. Five, Six, In the Sticks

**A/N:** Note to anyone who plans on moving anywhere, anytime, ever: do NOT wait until three days before the move to start packing. Really. Don't do it. It will make you slowly lose your mind. But despite my lack of being moved in, I had to take a few hours to relax... and this is how I spent them. :) Enjoy!

* * *

When the Dennison's home first appeared over the horizon, Temperance hardly recognized the aluminum structure as a house. It was small and rectangular, with a shoddily constructed wooden deck in front. The windows were small and mostly covered in tin foil, and a large dish perched overbearingly on the roof, beaming in every channel known to man, and some that made Temperance wonder about life on other planets.

"Home sweet home," Chuck said, cutting off the engine and hopping deftly from the truck. Temperance opened her door and nearly fell out of the high truck cabin, but was steadied by Leslie's hand.

"Easy pumpkin, you'll hurt yourself," she said, putting a hand on Temperance's shoulder.

"Do they pay us for that?" Chuck asked, tossing Temperance's bag onto the parched grass. Leslie shrugged, and Chuck lit another cigarette.

"Well then don't get hurt, kid," he said. "'Cause I ain't payin' to take you to no doctor." Temperance nodded, not sure how else to respond, and Chuck laughed. It was less a humored, genial laugh, and more of a derisive snort.

The house—Temperance figured the correct term was _mobile home_, but did not call it that for fear of offending her new family—was no more impressive on the inside than it had been on the outside. But while the group home had been unimpressive in the eclectic, thrown-together 'homey' way, Chuck and Leslie's home was unimpressive in the cheap, meretricious way. A large-screen television took up most of the main wall in the living room, poor resolution showing some sort of car race. A recliner was positioned nearly in the middle of the room, with a loveseat on the far wall and a bookshelf next to it.

The bookshelf, however, had no books, save for a copy of The Joy of Cooking and a Bible. Everything else was mechanic manuals, Playboy magazines, stacks of cassette tapes and what looked suspiciously like a ghetto blaster. A few cheaply framed pictures adorned the walls, and Temperance found upon closer inspection that they were tear-outs from a 1990 calendar, the grid on the opposite side just barely visible through the photo. There were no pictures of family or children; the closest thing to it was a picture on top of the TV of Chuck and his friends holding up the head of a very large, very dead stag.

"This is your room," Leslie said, as she led Temperance into what appeared to be the laundry room. A twin bed took up the length of the far wall, and the table next to it was in actuality a barstool with the legs sawed short. The only other furniture in the room was a dresser and a washer/dryer set. There was no window, and the closet had a single door, and was just large enough to step into. There was no cover on the fan bulb overhead, which was controlled via a long chain.

"I know it ain't much," Leslie said apologetically. "But it's yours. Chuck even made the bedside table for you, so you'd have somewhere to set your books or a picture or whatever you got with you." Temperance smiled and nodded, surveying the room. The carpet beneath her feet was a tawdry sand color, and a large stain around the washing machine showed where a past flood had wreaked havoc on the floor. The stain wasn't the only indicator—whenever anyone walked near the machine, the floor groaned and cracked, as if it were about to give way.

"I'll leave you alone to get settled in," Leslie said, patting Temperance on the shoulder and giving her that signature, simpering smile. "Dinner will be ready later, we'll be around if you need us." Leslie left Temperance alone, and as she shut the door Temperance let her bag hit the floor, shedding her heaviest coat and sitting on the bed, holding it in her lap. There was no desk, no bookshelf… school started next week, where would she study? Where would she keep her books? She didn't even know where she was going to school… this place was so far out, it surely wouldn't be the same school she had attended for the first half of the year. That was okay; she didn't really have any friends anyway. Nobody to miss.

She unpacked her belongings, folding the clothes and organizing them in the dresser drawers. The glass pane in the picture frame had cracked, so she picked out the pieces of glass and threw them in the trash. The picture was still fine, as was the frame, and she set it up on the barstool next to the bed. Next to clothes and the photograph of her family, she didn't really have anything else, so after about fifteen minutes she decided to venture into the main house.

"What?" Chuck asked when he became aware of Temperance's presence in the living room, standing near the hall entryway and watching him as he sat in his chair, staring at the television. She shook her head.

"Nothing," she said. Chuck grunted and turned his attention back to the race, ignoring her. She slipped out the front door and walked around the perimeter of the house, hands under her arms for warmth—she had forgotten how cold it was outside, and was only in a sweater. Just as she was about to turn around and head back inside, she heard a growl. Turning around, she saw a blocky, well-muscled dog approaching her, tail erect, body stiff, sniffing the air.

"Easy boy," Temperance said, holding her hands out palms-up. They'd never had dogs in her house, so she wasn't entirely comfortable around them. The dog took a few steps towards her, now about an arm's length out of reach. He continued to sniff at the air and then, suddenly deciding that she was okay, began wagging his tail. She smiled and bridged the gap between them, touching the top of the dog's head.

"Good boy," she said, scratching the top of his head between his ears as he leaned into her touch, his tail now wagging his entire body. He was brown and white, probably a pit bull mix, and very sweet. He began licking her hands feverously, as if she were disappearing and he wanted to taste as much of her as he could before she was gone. She laughed, enjoying the attention, and continued to stroke the dog's head, chin, and back. He smelled a little ripe, but it wasn't enough of a deterrent to keep her from kneeling down on the ground next to him, scratching his chest.

"You like him?" a voice asked. Temperance jumped, and looked up; Leslie was standing on the porch, wrapped in a blanket and watching Temperance and the dog.

"He's sweet," Temperance said, continuing to pat the dog. Leslie smiled.

"He's just a dirty ol' bag of fleas, but Chuck got him for me as a pup and I couldn't say no," Leslie said, more affectionately than not. "His name's Buckshot."

"What's buckshot?" Temperance asked, and Leslie laughed.

"And they told us you were smart," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "I just came out to see if you needed anything." Temperance shook her head.

"No, I'm okay," she said airily. And right then, in that moment, she was—the dog had paid more attention to her in five minutes than most people she had interacted with for the past week. Leslie shrugged.

"Alright then," she said. "But don't stay out here much longer, you'll catch cold." Temperance obeyed her wishes, staying outside just a minute longer before scratching Buckshot behind the ears one last time, then leaving him alone in the yard as she walked back into the house. The dog did not try to follow her inside, but rather crawled back underneath the house, out of sight.

Later that night, after the sun had gone down and Temperance had spent several hours in her room staring at the ceiling, Leslie rapped her knuckles against the door, informing Temperance that dinner was ready. When she walked into the kitchen/dining room combo, she found a fold-up chair pulled up to a small dinette set, a place set with mismatched silverware and a plastic cup filled with milk. She sat at the table quietly, and was soon joined by Leslie as she emerged from the bathroom.

"Chuck, honey, dinner's ready," she said, tiny voice barely audible over the roar of the cars whizzing around the racetrack. He grunted in acknowledgement, and after another minute of sitting and waiting, he finally joined them. Leslie dished out green beans, pork chops, and mashed potatoes from a box. They ate quietly, the room filled with the noise of NASCAR and forks scraping plates.

"Do you like it?" Leslie asked Temperance after she had eaten about half the food on her plate. She nodded.

"Yeah, it's good, thank you," she said. In reality, the potatoes were gritty and the green beans had the peculiar taste that being canned for a period of time gives them, but Temperance wasn't about to complain. Chuck, however, was.

"Liar," he said, staring at Temperance levelly from across the table. "It tastes like shit." Leslie bowed her head, not saying anything, but Temperance couldn't break his gaze. She felt as if her eyes were magnetically drawn to his, and couldn't look away.

"The potatoes are gritty as hell," he said.

_Yes, they are._

"I thought they tasted good," Temperance said, barely above a whisper.

"The beans taste like the inside of a tin-fuckin'-can," he growled.

_Yes, they do._

"I didn't notice," Temperance defended, voice growing even weaker as Chuck sat up higher in his chair, hands now both on the edge of the table.

"You're a little piece of shit liar and you know it," he said.

"Chuck, leave her be," Leslie said, and Chuck finally retracted his gaze from Temperance, turning the fire towards Leslie. The moment he began yelling, Temperance realized the truth—that was the entire point of Leslie's comment.

"Maybe if you could cook a goddamn piece of pork without drying the damn thing out we wouldn't be havin' this conversation at all!" he hollered, growing redder and redder in the face. Leslie shrank into her chair, eyes still watching her plate. Temperance felt incredibly sorry for her, but did not intervene.

"I'm sorry, Chuck," Leslie said. "I'll do better next time."

"You say that every time, but everything you make is shit!" Chuck yelled, slamming his fists on the table, rattling the plates and cups. Temperance's hands grabbed each other under the table and she clasped them tightly, watching the conflict steadily escalate.

"A man should be able to come home to a damn good home cooked meal, not some canned, boxed-up shit because his woman can't cook!" he roared, now spewing a fine mist in Leslie's face as he leaned in close to her, staring directly into her eyes. She finally met his gaze, eyes slowly rising to line up with his.

"I'll learn, Chuck, I'm sorry," she said. He rose from his chair, turned as if he were about to leave, then abruptly spun around and slapped her face. Her head fell to the side like that of a rag doll, and Temperance let out an audible gasp, her hand rising to her own face in sympathy. Chuck breathed heavily, eyes wild, and turned to Temperance.

"And you—" he said, pointing at her. She leaned back in her chair, nearly falling backwards out of it. "You better quit your damn lying if you want to keep living in this house, you hear?" She nodded.

"I said, YOU HEAR?" he bellowed.

"Yes!" she said quickly, voice coming out an octave higher than she had expected.

"Now, I want you to say it," he said between loud wheezes. "Say what you really think of Leslie's cooking." Temperance's eyes bounced back and forth between Chuck and Leslie, who now had a bright red handprint glowing on her left cheek.

"I—" Temperance choked, not knowing what to say. Who to hurt.

"It's okay, honey," Leslie whispered. "You can say it."

"SHUT UP!" Chuck screamed, holding his hand up threateningly at Leslie, who cringed away.

"Okay, okay!" Temperance said, causing Chuck to divert his attention back to her. It had become a dangerous game for Leslie and Temperance; who could keep the beast's attention long enough to keep the other safe, who could guess when it was time to put themselves in the kill zone.

"I think…" she started, and Chuck stared with narrowed eyes. She glanced over to Leslie, who gave a very slight inclination of the head, which Temperance took to be a nod. "I think that her food is awful," she said, hating herself as soon as the words left her mouth. Leslie, however, looked visibly relieved.

"How awful?" Chuck said, obviously taking joy in tormenting his wife, and Temperance. She swallowed hard.

"I said, HOW AWFUL?" he screamed when she did not respond quickly enough. Before she could open her mouth, she saw his arm rise up above her head, almost in slow motion, and then his hand struck the side of her face. It felt as if she had been hit with a shovel. She saw lights pop in front of her eyes and she grabbed the sides of the chair for support. He shook his head, sneering in disgust.

Suddenly he grabbed his plate and threw it against the opposite wall. It hit the plaster with a loud crack and exploded, shards of ceramic and pieces of food littering the floor and sticking to the wall. He grabbed Temperance's plate and threw it like a Frisbee against the same wall, seeming to take satisfaction in watching the dish explode, food decorating the kitchen.

He stood and kicked his chair out from underneath him, grabbing a six-pack from the refrigerator and storming out the front door, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the walls. Temperance heard the engine come alive, and the truck rumbled into the distance. Leslie quietly left the table, tucking her chair in behind her and leaving the mess behind, barely making it through her bedroom door before she burst into tears, shutting herself in without a word to Temperance.

As quickly as the outburst had begun, it stopped, and Temperance found herself alone at the table, face burning. She picked her hand up and touched her cheek; it glowed red hot, and she traced the area with her fingers, still in shock. She didn't know what to do, so for a moment she just sat at the table, alone, staring at the wreckage.

She finally got up, and ran a rag hanging over the faucet under water. When it was good and wet she got down on her knees and began wiping the mess up off of the linoleum. She scooped up pieces of pork, piles of potatoes, green beans scattered across the floor. She re-wet the rag and continued wiping until the floor was clean, then moved to the wallpaper. With a little scrubbing she managed to make the wall come clean. By that time the race had ended, and the clock hanging on the wall over the trashcan read at nearly eleven o'clock.

She rinsed the rag and hung it over the edge of the sink to dry. She took the remaining dishes—Leslie's plate, all of their glasses, and the silverware—and washed them, too, setting them in the dish rack to dry. She dried her hands against her pants and picked up Chuck's chair, tucking it back under the table where it belonged. Not knowing where the foldout chair came from, she left it, flicking the kitchen light out as she left. She left the TV on, allowing two announcers to finish their recount of the previous race as she dragged herself into the bedroom.

As she shut the door gently behind her, she felt the emotions of the past few hours suddenly hit her like a piano falling from the sky. She felt crushed by the weight, felt as if she could not draw air into her lungs, and slid down the side of the door to the floor, sobbing quietly. She leaned against the door and pressed her face into her hands, knees pulled to her chest, letting the tears come freely. Her shaking rattled the door but she couldn't stop, so she moved to the bed, burying her face in the pillow and wailing into it, trying to muffle the noise. She couldn't stop, she felt like a woman possessed by fear and anger and outrage. Mostly fear, though. She trembled and sobbed, soaking through her pillow.

She cried until there were no tears left to cry, then continued to sob dryly into the pillow, lungs hitching for breath, body wracked with a host of incredibly strong, uncomfortable feelings. She had never, _never_ been treated so poorly by a man in her entire life. Her father had been nothing but respectful and loving to her mother, and had taught her brother to be the same and Temperance to expect just as much.

Her father had never as much as even spanked her or Russ, but now she found herself fearing for her physical well-being. It was a new fear; a fear that wrenched her guts into knots and pressed her lungs for air. It crawled under her skin and into her brain, turning over and over in her thoughts. It touched the back of her neck and ran its fingers down her spine, blew against her face and hissed into the darkness. If she kept the light on, she saw it crawling in the shadows. If she turned the light off, the shadows found their way into her head. She could not find refuge.

She lay awake for as long as she could, willing herself not to fall asleep. At first it was not difficult—it was as if she were lying on a bed of nails, rigid and alert, waiting for the alarms to sound. As the night progressed, though, she began to feel an overwhelming physical and emotional exhaustion that eventually took over, forcing her into a fitful, wrought sleep. Every few minutes she roused into consciousness, afraid to find herself face to face with Chuck again.

A few hours later she awoke as the sun was just beginning to rise. She shot up in bed, fear from the night before flooding her. When she found no immediate source of danger, though, she relaxed a bit, and brought her hand up to her face. Her cheek was swollen, and still warm.

She crawled out of bed and cracked her door, peering down the hall. Chuck was still gone, or at least not in sight, so she walked down the hall to the bathroom and flicked the light on, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. Her cheek was definitely swollen, and still pink, obvious finger marks streaked across the side of her face. As she surveyed the damage she heard a familiar engine rumble towards the house, and she froze, eyes glued to her reflection as her face blanched, making the handprint stand out even brighter red than before.

He was back.

She fled down the hall, slamming her bedroom door behind her. She felt that she could commiserate awfully with the dead deer in the photograph above the TV—cornered, nowhere to run, waiting to die. Realistically she did not think she was in actual mortal danger, but the fear was so incredible that she was overcome with the desire, the need, to escape.

Her eyes fell on the window. She pushed it open, cold air seeping into the room, freezing her fingers as they pried the screen away from the frame. When the screen had been pushed out she slowly pushed herself out the window, legs first, falling on her knees onto the cold, packed earth below. As she hit the ground she heard the door open, Chucks heavy footfalls echoing through the house.

As she began to back away from the house, she heard a loud, excited whine. Buckshot emerged from beneath the trailer, tail wagging, breath coming out in white puffs from his nose. She beseeched him with a finger to her lips and a loud 'shhhh', and he acquiesced, lowering himself to the ground and resting his head on his paws, tail still. She heard Chuck yell her name and she bolted, running like a scared animal across the yard.

She ran towards the road, shoes sliding over the iced gravel as she ran. Her face and hands were frozen, and her lungs heaved as she gulped in the frigid air, not daring to slow down and catch her breath. Her side cramped painfully but she kept running, afraid of what would happen if she stopped. Soon she could not feel her feet, and the combination of numbness and slick ice caused her to tumble to the ground, hands outstretched to break her fall. Her hands were numb and she felt no pain, only fear. She scrambled to her feet and continued running, not slowing until she came to the main road.

Temperance finally slowed down, walking along the side of the rural county road that stretched out along the flat land like an asphalt river. The wind bit through her clothes and she could not even move her fingers for being so cold. She tried to rub her hands together for warmth, but instead of relief felt incredible pain—she looked down at her palms and saw raw, bloody skin, with bits of gravel and dirt embedded into the wounds.

So instead she stood in the cold, shivering uncontrollably, waiting for someone—anyone—to notice her.

"So you just stood there and waited?" Sweets asked. Brennan nodded.

"Yeah, I stood there and waited," she said, echoing his words.

"How long were you there for?" he asked.

"About twenty minutes," she said. "Someone finally saw me and picked me up. She took me back to social services."

"And they sent you back to the group home?" he asked. Brennan nodded.

"Yeah," was her only reply. They sat in silence, Sweets staring at Brennan from across the desk, Brennan staring at the floor. He let out a heavy sigh, capping his pen and setting the pad of paper on his desk.

"That must have been really hard for you," he said, voice laced with sympathy. Brennan felt her armor lock into place.

"I guess," she said dismissively. "But it doesn't matter now."

"I don't know about that," Sweets said. Brennan looked up at the clock.

"Aren't we done now?" she said. He sighed again, biting his lower lip.

"Yes, I guess we are," he said, standing and walking her to the door. "See you next time?" he said, voice rising at the end of the sentence as if he were asking a question. She nodded.

"I suppose so," she said, letting him open the door for her and exiting the office. Rather than calling up Angela to drive her home, she walked down the sidewalk in the direction of home, sweat beading up on her forehead and rolling down her back. Eventually she gave in and hailed a cab, stepping into the back of the car and directing him towards her house. As she rode she stared down at her hands, which both lay palms-up in her lap. On the mound of her left palm was a small, crooked indentation, nearly sixteen years old.

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**A/N: **By the way, buckshot is a type of hunting ammo, for anyone who wasn't aware.

Love it? Hate it? Leave a review and let me know! :)


	7. Hold Me Now

**A/N:** Wow, what a response to the last chapter! Thank you so much for all the positive feedback... it feels great to know you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. I wanted to finish this up and post it yesterday, but my block kept losing power thanks to the bad weather... fortunately most of it has blown over now. Anyway, this chapter is a little fluffy, a little angsty, a moment of past and a lot of present. I wanted to give you a nice, heartwarming, fluffy chapter... but that didn't really happen as planned. xD Oh well, sometimes your muse takes you on a detour... and the view is good. Enjoy!

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_I wanna bullet proof your soul  
Would you like to lose control?  
I won't let you fall until you tell me so..._

_- Bulletproof, The Goo Goo Dolls_

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Brennan spent most of the next day in Limbo, assembling and identifying remains. She avoided the platform and the rest of the team as much as possible, preferring to immerse herself in her work, where silence was golden and empiricism ruled. In Limbo she didn't have to run from Angela's knowing pouts, Hodgins's sympathizing head tilts, or Cam's keen sense of going-ons. Sometimes she felt like Cam could look straight through her and see the story play out like a movie clip, a feeling that made Brennan squirm inside. Brennan didn't need to be coddled, pitied, or scrutinized today. She just wanted to stare at skeletons; let them tell their stories, instead of being badgered to tell hers.

Late in the afternoon, a rap of knuckles on the inside of the glass door told Brennan that someone had broken taboo, and come to see her. She looked up from the small male skull she had been pouring over and saw her best friend's slender silhouette in the door frame.

"Bren," she said, in her very Angela-esque _I know something's up and I won't leave you alone until I figure it out_ way.

"Ange," Brennan replied in a tone that was partially warning, partially pleading.

"I'm not going to ask if you don't want to talk about it," Angela said, and Brennan breathed a sigh of relief. Angela approached the table and put both hands on the edge.

"But I am worried about you," she added, raising her eyebrows. Brennan looked down at the skull before her.

"Don't be, Ange. I just need some space to… clear my head," she said. Suddenly Angela grabbed the skull Brennan had been fixated on, holding it up and looking into the empty sockets.

"Well clearing your head or not," she said, turning the skull to face Brennan. "You're not Hamlet, and this guy isn't going to give you any answers." Brennan smiled and took the skull out of Angela's hands, setting it down gently on the backlit table.

"Is that all you came in here to tell me?" Brennan asked, and Angela shook her head.

"No, I was actually going to ask you where Booth was," Angela said. Brennan's brows furrowed.

"He's not at his office?" she asked. She hadn't seen him all day, but she had spent most of her time holed up in Limbo, and had assumed that since he hadn't been in pestering her, he must be back at the FBI headquarters.

"No, they said he called in sick, but he called in sick yesterday too. What's wrong with him?" Angela asked.

"His son Parker was really sick, he probably got whatever he had. The flu, I think," Brennan said. It wasn't really a lie—if he was out sick today, he probably really did get whatever Parker had. She just neglected to mention that he hadn't really been sick the day before.

"Bummer," Angela said. "Okay, I just wanted to make sure he was alright… and you, too," she said, putting her hand on Brennan's shoulder. "I'm here, sweetie; don't forget that."

"I won't," Brennan said, leaning her cheek against Angela's hand. "Thank you."

"Hey, best friends, right? That's what we do," Angela said, pinching Brennan's cheek playfully and exiting the room, leaving her alone with her wordless skull. Brennan flipped open her phone after Angela and hit speed dial #1, Booth. It rang several times before he finally picked up.

"Hullo?" he said, sounding extremely congested.

"Hey, it's me," she said. "You sound awful."

"I dink I got what Parker haths," Booth snuffled, taking a sharp breath and sneezing loudly. Brennan held the phone away, as if afraid the germs would travel through the wireless connection.

"Uh oh," Brennan said. "Are you guys doing okay?"

"He's okay," Booth said thickly. "He's been asthleep most of the day."

"And you?" Brennan asked.

"I'll make it," Booth said.

"Do you want me to bring you anything?" Brennan asked. There was a pause.

"How about some macaroni and cheeths?" Booth asked pitifully.

"Dairy thickens mucous," Brennan pointed out. "You don't want that. How about some soup instead?"

"You make thsoup?" Booth asked. Brennan snorted.

"I'm not a one-act woman, Booth," Brennan defended. "I have many talents, macaroni and cheese the least of these. I'll be over in a little bit."

"Thankths," Booth said, unleashing another powerful sneeze into the receiver. Brennan hung up, wondering what exactly she was volunteering herself for.

She left the Jeffersonian shortly after, driving herself out to the nearest Piggly Wiggly. She picked up the necessaries for soup—broth, chicken, vegetables—as well as a carton of 

orange juice and some popsicles. By the time she pulled into Booth's driveway, the sun was beginning to duck below the tops of the trees.

"That was quick," Booth said when he opened the door and saw Brennan standing on his welcome mat with an armful of groceries.

"I keep telling you, I'm a good driver," she said, letting herself in and setting the groceries on the counter. "Is Parker still asleep?"

"Yeah, he woke up earlier but now he's out," Booth said, hacking loudly. He hauked his sputum into a napkin on the table and tossed it into the garbage, sniffing loudly.

"You should take a hot shower," Brennan suggested. "It would help with the congestion."

"I haven't had time to, Parker's been needing me," Booth said woefully. Brennan waved him off.

"Go take a shower, I'll… well, if Parker needs anything, I'm not totally inept, right?" she said, almost asking as much as making a point. Booth smiled.

"No, you're not," he said. "Thankths." He started down the hall and Brennan heard him sneeze violently on his way.

By the time Booth emerged from the shower, he could smell chicken cooking in the kitchen. The fact that he could smell at all was a vast improvement—she had been right, the long, hot shower really had done wonders for his ability to breathe.

"Mmm, what's that?" he asked, padding into the kitchen. Brennan waved him out.

"Sick people stay out of the kitchen," she said. "I already had to send Parker to the living room."  
"He's up?" Booth asked. She nodded.

"I gave him a popsicle and turned on the TV for him… I guess he found a show he likes, I haven't heard from him since," Brennan said, chopping a handful of red potatoes and tossing them into the boiling pot.

"He's probably asleep," Booth said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the carton of orange juice. As he reached for the cabinet to get a glass, he felt something smack his shoulder. He turned around and saw Brennan wielding a fly swatter, looking cross.

"Did you think I was kidding? Get out! I don't want you contaminating the food," she said, using the handle end of the swatter to push him towards the door. "Go watch TV with Parker, I'll bring you some orange juice." Booth laughed, which quickly turned into a cough, and 

plopped down on the couch next to his son, who was not asleep not quickly heading in that direction. Booth felt himself slipping into sleep as he watched cartoon animals chase each other across the screen, eyelids growing heavy. Soon the weight of Parker's head on his leg told him that his son was out, and Booth's head was resting against the back of the couch when he felt something cold press against his hand. He pried his eyes open and saw Brennan holding two glasses of orange juice—one large, and one in a kid's cup. Booth took both cups, setting one on the coffee table, and Brennan pulled two pills out of her pocket.

"I saw that you gave him his last Motrin at noon, so he can have another dose now," she said, dropping the small pills into Booth's palm.

"Wow, Bones," he said, sipping his juice and trying to conceal a grin. "For someone who doesn't want kids, you sure jump right into the mom role." She gave him a sour look and went back into the kitchen without another word. He heard her return to chopping vegetables, and sighed contentedly, soon lapsing back into a coughing fit.

After another half-hour of slipping in and out of sleep, Booth saw Brennan poke her head back into the living room doorway.

"You want me to bring it to you?" she asked. Booth nodded.

"Yes, please," he said, in such an ungodly pitiful tone that Brennan had to choke back laughter. She found the wooden fold-out trays tucked between two cupboards, and moved them into the living room, setting them up in front of the two sick Booth boys. She returned shortly with two bowls of soup, and a package of Saltine crackers. Returning to the kitchen one last time for her own bowl, she seated herself lightly on the opposite end of the couch, Parker sprawled out between them. They all ate wordlessly, Booth picking at his while Parker ate with gusto.

"Feeling better?" Brennan asked the boy, who sopped up the last of the broth with a few Saltines. He nodded.

"A little," he said, smiling up at her. "The soup helped."

"Good," she said. She looked over at Booth, who was still working on his.

"Good soup, Bones," he said after swallowing down a bite. "I'm just not very hungry, is all." Brennan tilted her head slightly, watching him eat.

"Have you taken your own temperature lately?" she asked. Booth shook his head.

"I don't need to, I'm fine," he said. "It's just a head cold." He launched into a round of deep, wet coughs as soon as he finished his sentence, and Brennan pursed her lips.

"Come here," she said, reaching over Parker and placing her hand on Booth's forehead. He resisted but she won, nearly smacking him in the face as she did so.

"Booth, you're burning up," she said, feeling the heat radiate from his face. He pushed her away, grumbling.

"I'm fine," he insisted, taking another bite of his soup. "See? Hungry. Fine."

"You should take some Motrin yourself," she said, standing up and taking her and Parker's bowls back to the kitchen. She rifled through the medicine drawer for adult-strength Motrin, and by the time she found it Booth had lumbered into the kitchen, carrying his bowl and glass.

"I don't need it, I'm fine," he argued, but Brennan ignored him, popping open the cap and shaking two pills out into her hand.

"You are not, take these," she said. He cut his eyes at her but took the pills, swallowing them down with the last of his orange juice. He made a bitter face.

"Go sit down," Brennan said, grabbing the crook of his elbow and turning him in the direction of the living room. "I'll clean up."

"But you cooked," he argued feebly, allowing himself to be lead back to the couch. He fell back down onto the couch cushions, and by the time Brennan had rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, Booth and Parker were both sound asleep, sprawled out across the length of the couch. Brennan picked up a pen and divided the pad of paper Booth had been keeping track of Parker's medicine intake on into two columns—one marked with a P, one with an S. She wrote down the times of their dosages in the columns, and suddenly wondered who had taught her to do so.

Then she was curled up on the couch at Janice's home, wrapped up in the hand-sewn quilt that always remained draped over the back of the couch. She rested her head on the arm rest at one end of the couch, and Kamaria slept on the other end. They had been in a tight race to see whose fever could spike fastest, and Temperance was winning hands-down, having climbed to nearly 103 degrees. Janice took their temperatures every hour, soaking the old mercury thermometer in alcohol and rinsing it in lukewarm water between each use. She brought them bowls of homemade soup and encouraged them to drink a variety of juices—apple, orange, cranberry, anything they'd sip on.

"When it rains, it pours," Janice said, carrying a small baby boy around on her hip as he cried frantically. He too was spiking a fever now, the illness having spread quickly through the home. Most of the children were sick or getting sick, curled up on couches, chairs, and pallets on the floor. Janice preferred to keep them all in one "sick bay", she called it, so she wasn't running from one end of the house to the other.

"Take these," Janice said, handing Temperance two Asprin. She swallowed them down with a glass of water, feeling the rough, uncoated pills scratch against her throat. Janice wrote down the time—two thirty seven in the afternoon—on a pad of white lined paper. The paper was divided into nine rows, each with a different child's name at the top, keeping track of who got what, when.

"That's how you keep track of it," Janice said to Temperance when she inquired about the paper. "Otherwise, there's no way I could remember who took what, and when they got it again. This is the best way to remember." Temperance nodded, only hearing about half of what Janice said. Delirium was kicking in, and she smiled up at the woman, who stroked her sweaty forehead lovingly. She closed her eyes and heard Janice's soothing voice speak to another child, encouraging them to drink something, nibble on some crackers, just a bite. Just a bite.

"Bones?" Booth asked, walking into the kitchen and finding Brennan sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at the sheet of paper he had been keeping track of Parker's meds on. "Bones, are you okay?" She looked up, and he saw the tears in her eyes.

"I'm…" she started, but she could not finish her sentence—instead, a sob choked its way out. Booth lowered himself onto the tiled floor, sitting next to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

"It's alright," he said, and she leaned into him, burying her face in his neck. He stroked her hair and tried to hold back a cough. It came out anyway, shaking both of them. He shifted onto his knees, wrapping both arms around Brennan's small figure, letting her lean into him fully. Her arms snaked around his neck and she began to cry, really cry. He rubbed her back and let her cry, feeling her tremble as sobs shook her body.

Parker slept on the couch, belly full from a good meal, the dishwasher rumbled and hissed, and Temperance sobbed into Booth's clean shirt, letting the fullness of the pain truly grab her, rattle her, from the core outward. It writhed inside of her like a snake, grabbing her throat 

and choking her, sometimes to the point where Booth had to remind her to breathe. She remembered the fear, the pain, the pieces of earth and rock ground into her palms. She remembered the first night she was sick at the group home, crying for the one thing a sick child truly needs—their mother—and finding nothing. She remembered Janice stroking her forehead, showing her how families keep track of one another. She remembered trying to grasp the concept of a family that kept track of one another.

"You're okay, Temperance; I'm here," Booth said soothingly, hugging her close as the tears ended and were replaced with dry, heaving sobs. He brushed the hair out of her face, wet pieces stuck to the tracks where her tears had fallen, and she continued to hide her face in him, press herself against him, like she was trying to fall into him.

He held her, he guarded her, and he wanted her to see how loved she was more than anything… but he did not have the words. So he just kept holding on.

She breathed him in and felt safe. The demons that were abusing her, dragging the corpses of the past out of the water, were stopped. He gave her shelter, he gave her an anchor to cling to when she felt that she might break into a thousand pieces and fly in as many directions. He gave her sanctuary in a moment of terror, and she wished she had words to describe what that meant to her… but there were none. So she just kept holding on.

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**A/N:** I love getting your feedback, good, bad, and otherwise, so please let me know what you think! :)


	8. Seven, Eight, Take the Bait

**A/N:** Wow guys, I thought the feedback on Chapter 6 was awesome until I got all of your reviews on Chapter 7! You guys really blew me away, in a really great, feel-good kind of way. :) Thank you so much! This chapter is a little more fluff, a lot more angst, and mostly past... and hopefully I answered a few questions I have heard floating around in your reviews. Obviously the answers I give in my fic are my own artistic liberties, in no way associated with Fox... but you guys know that already. :P So without further adieu... enjoy!

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_Something is scratching its way out  
Something you want to forget about  
No one expects you to care at all  
All on your own, with no one around..._

_- Little House, The Fray_

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They sat together for a century on the cold tile floor, Brennan's hitched sobs slowly turning into rhythmic, quiet breathing. Her intense grip on his neck and shoulders softened, until her hands simply rested against him. He, however, did not relinquish his grip; she was safe, he would not let her go, and she needed to know that. She had to know that.

Finally Booth stood up, pulling Brennan to her feet, and led her into the living room. He scooped Parker up off the couch and carried the boy into his bedroom, covering him lightly with the sheets and kissing his forehead before turning off the light and closing the door gently behind him. He walked back down the hall towards the living room, pausing at the entrance and watching Brennan from behind—the way she curled up on the end of the couch, so small and alone, made him want to run and scoop her up too, tuck her in, kiss her forehead.

He sat next to her on the couch and they did not speak; instead she leaned into him and he pulled her in close, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and tucking her hair behind her ear. Normally she would not allow this sort of closeness—his touch elicited a shock of electricity that threw her wildly out of her comfort zone—but she was already wildly out of her comfort zone, so what difference could it possibly make? At this point she was broken, salt scrubbed, and she needed him to hold her so she wouldn't turn into a million centrifugal pieces. She needed him.

She closed her eyes and felt his chest rise and fall, occasionally jumping with a hacking cough, but unfailingly falling back into heavy rhythm. Booth and Brennan became Yin and Yang—when he breathed in, she breathed out, so that they filled the spaces between perfectly. They were as stars thrown into the darkness, bright and essentially alone, though slowly taking shape. Like Delphinus, Perseus, Andromeda; constellations in the heavens, shining as single entities but, in equal measure, never formed by one alone.

They watched the clock above the mantle tick the minutes by; five, ten, twenty. They didn't move, only shifting occasionally to make way for the other's presence. Then, finally, he spoke.

"I won't let go until you tell me to," he said. It was simple, quiet, innocuous even. But the simple notice, the fleeting words, meant more to Brennan than a catacomb bursting with centuries of sonnets and passion. It wasn't just a gesture, it was a promise, and Seeley Booth never broke his promises. That she knew.

"I know," she said quietly, pressing her face into his shoulder. He smiled, letting his fingers wade through her hair lazily. They were only two words, two words that she in fact said to him several times in the average day, but at this moment they meant an incredible amount. It was hard for Booth to ever really know if she saw even just a spark of the fire inside of him; some days he thought for sure he saw it, in a smile or a sideways glance, but others days he felt her judgments fall on him as if he were simply a pile of bones. To know that she knew she was safe, knew she was protected, knew she was cared for… it meant he was getting through.

"I know it's hard for you," Booth said after several more minutes. Brennan picked up her head and looked at him; their noses were incredibly close, too close, and Booth instead faced the opposite wall.

"Talking to Sweets about everything that happened," he continued. "I mean, I don't know because it wasn't me, it didn't happen to me, and I don't know what ever really went on while you were in the system… but the fact that you had to go through that at all, that you were there in the first place… I know that's hard for you to relive, Bones. It would be hard for anyone." Brennan lay her head back down on his shoulder, screwing her eyes shut until lights flashed in front of them.

"Yes," she finally said. "It is."

"And you know," he began carefully, "if you ever need to talk to somebody about it without you know, getting psycho-analyzed or whatever… I'm always here for you, Bones. I'm always here."

Brennan picked her head up again, craning her neck back to get a good look at her partner's face. She scanned it with all the coldness and objectivity she could muster, searching his features, his gaze, for a lie. She found none.

"I only ever had two good homes," she started. Booth realized she was opening up to him, and turned his body slightly to face her. She kept her eyes unwaveringly fixated on the collar of his shirt, refusing his gaze.

"One of them was the group home, with the Chaplins," she said. "The first place I ever went after they removed me from my parent's house."

"How many times were you there?" Booth asked nervously, unsure of whether the question would help her open up, or push her farther back into the fortress she resided within.

"Six times," she said. "Same group home every time a family didn't work out. She was really the only familiar face."

"How many—nevermind," Booth said. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to, you know…"

"It's okay," she said quietly, looking down at her palms. "You can ask."

"How many different homes did you have?" he finished. She sighed.

"Aside from the Chaplins… six. I graduated a year early from high school, emancipated myself from foster care at seventeen, and with a lot of financial help from grants and student loans, started as a freshman at Northwestern in ninety-three." Booth let out a low whistle—he knew Brennan had always been self-sufficient, but to accomplish all that totally on her own? It was a remarkable feat, even for her.

"That must have been really hard," Booth said. He felt her shrug.

"You do what you have to," she said, as if it were no greater accomplishment than making a grilled cheese sandwich. He shook his head.

"You shouldn't have had to," he said darkly. "It wasn't fair for you to have to go through that."

"The only 'fair' I know is the kind you pay to get on a bus," Brennan quoted, remembering when Kamaria used to tell that to her. Booth turned to her with a quizzical look on his face, caught between confusion and amusement.

"Who taught you that?" he asked. She shook her head.

"A girl I used to know," she said quietly. She knew she couldn't say her name, not out loud. There were plenty of times she said it to herself in the dark—_Kamaria, Kamaria, Kamaria._ But to say it out loud, to hear it, she couldn't do.

"Do you know where she ended up?" Booth asked, realizing the connection. Brennan closed her hand into a fist and sank her fingernails into her palm—another trick she had learned in foster care, to control her emotions.

"No," she lied. "I lost touch, I'm not really sure where she ended up."

"That's a shame," Booth said. Brennan did not respond, but shut her eyes, banishing the upwelling of emotion threatening to crack her again.

"You said you had two good families," Booth said. "Who was the other one?"

"The Taylors," Brennan said. "Jerry and Tina. They had a daughter and a son of their own, too, Sarah and Jamey. Sarah was my age, Jamey was younger, maybe ten."

"That sounds nice," Booth said.

"For a while it was," Brennan agreed. "They lasted the longest… six months. And for a while it was nice."

"Then what happened?" Booth asked hesitantly. He felt Brennan tense up, and he instantly regretted asking at all.

"I don't know," she said. "Things just turned sour, I guess."

_July 21__st__, 1992_

"What kind of cake do you like, yellow or chocolate?" Tina asked Temperance, who shrugged good-naturedly.

"I don't know, whatever you like is fine," she said. Tina smiled at the girl, whose sixteenth birthday was the next day.

"You must have a preference," the woman argued, and a small boy with chin-length brown hair and a sweet face popped his head over the edge of the counter.

"I think she likes chocolate," he said, and Tina laughed.

"I think you should let her make her own decision, it's her birthday cake," she said, and Temperance shrugged.

"Chocolate is fine with me," she said. Tina rolled her eyes, and the boy, Jamey, grinned broadly.

"Fine, chocolate it is then," Tina said, setting the yellow Duncan Hines mix back into the pantry and opening the box of chocolate instead.

"Chocolate gives you _zits_, Temperance, didn't you know that?" a moody voice groused from the bottom of the stairwell. Sarah, who had turned sixteen the month before and took it as an entitlement to act as "teen" as she could possibly bear, appeared in the kitchen beside her mother. She was a much younger mirror of the woman, with the same dirty blonde hair, narrow-set blue eyes, and long, tapering nose. Her lips, however, were as of late turned downward in a perpetual pout.

"You're the only one in this house who gets zits on her face, zit-face," Jamey teased, and his mother whacked his fingers that grasped the edge of the counter gently with a spatula.

"James Taylor, be nice to your sister!" she chided. The girl gave a dramatic sigh and stomped back up the stairs, leaving little storm clouds in her wake. Jamey made a crinkly face.

"She's mean," he observed. Tina sighed.

"She's a teenager," she replied.

"Temper doesn't act like that," he argued, looking pointedly at Temperance. The family had taken to calling her Temper as an oxymoron for her absolute lack of one. Tina shrugged.

"Because Temperance is wise beyond her years, I suspect," she said, looking up from the cake batter she was mixing and giving the girl a quick wink. "She already thinks like an adult." Temperance smiled and stared down at the counter—after Chuck and Leslie, she had spent three weeks at the group home recovering from the experience, before she was placed with the Taylor family. She didn't think she could have ever found a set of foster parents more different than Chuck and Leslie—Jerry was a soft-spoken man with a quick wit and quirky sense of humor, while Tina was a loud, vivacious jokester who liked to jump on the trampoline with the kids and make gross "concoctions" with Jamey out of everyday pantry goods. _This_, she thought, _is as close as foster care can get to being home._

That night Temperance helped Tina frost the cake—her cake—while Jamey 'helped' by making sure there wasn't too much left-over frosting. Sarah wandered in half-way through frosting the cake, and leaned on her mother's shoulder.

"Mom, will you paint my toenails?" she asked.

"Not right now, sweetie, I'm in the middle of something," she said. "How about later?" Sarah's lips fell into their signature pout, her brows furrowing.

"Temperance can finish icing the cake, can't you Temper?" Sarah asked sweetly. Temperance nodded.

"I can, sure, that wouldn't be—"

"Sarah! I'm ashamed, Temperance shouldn't have to ice her own birthday cake!" Tina said, aghast. Sarah's arms crossed.

"She's doing it right now, isn't she? What's the difference?" she argued.

"Temperance wanted to help me, she wouldn't take no for an answer," Tina said, voice growing louder. Jamey stuck one of the spreading spatulas into his mouth, eyes watching the battle between his mother and sister. Temperance stood awkwardly on the opposite side of the counter, trying to stay out of the middle of an argument that she was clearly right in the middle of.

"Because unlike you, Temperance hasn't gotten every single thing in her life that she wanted, the moment she wanted it," Tina continued, growing more and more angry with her daughter. "The least I could do for her was bake her a cake for her birthday, just like I do you and Jamey, and the poor thing felt so bad about me going out of my way for her that she offered to help. Not that you would understand that, Sarah, since you never lift a finger to help anyone around here but yourself!" Sarah's mouth fell open, and her hands balled into fists.

"I hate you!" she shrieked, running up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door behind her. Jamey's eyes were wide, still licking frosting off of the spreader, and Temperance excused herself to the living room, where Jerry was watching the evening news. When Temperance sat down on the couch opposite of his armchair, he peered at her from over the top of the Time magazine he was reading, and smiled.

"Don't mind that," he said, startling her as he spoke. "Sarah's always been a bit… well, she's always had a flair for the dramatic," he explained tactfully. "I'm sure you've noticed. She'll settle down eventually—the bull always does between rides." Temperance couldn't help but smile at his joke, and his own smile broadened.

"'Atta girl," he said, returning to his magazine.

The next morning Temperance woke up and traced the familiar path down the hall to the bathroom, like she did every morning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until she looked into the mirror and saw, written in toothpaste across the surface, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TEMPERANCE!" She grinned broadly, remembering what day it was—her birthday. She was finally sixteen. Regardless of how much or little partying, driving, and general "teen activities" Temperance involved herself in, sixteen was a rite of passage, a milestone, and she had reached it.

She padded down the stairs and found Tina in the kitchen, making pancakes—blackberry, Temperance's favorite. She slipped under Tina's arm and gave her a hug, knowing good and well she was the one who wrote the greeting on the mirror, and Tina dropped the spatula and hugged her back, letting the pancake burn.

"Happy birthday, Temper," she said, looking down at Temperance and smiling. "You're sixteen now! Feel old?"

"Not really," Temperance admitted, and Tina laughed.

"Good. You're not allowed to feel old until you look like me, huh?" she joked, quickly flipping the pancake before it caught fire. Temperance poured herself a glass of orange juice, and sat at the barstool drinking it, waiting for the rest of the house to rouse.

By eleven everyone had eaten and dressed, and were preparing to leave for Sarah's Great Aunt Judith's. Great Aunt Judith was an incredibly immense woman, with a love of crochet and Jeopardy, who regularly hosted family luncheons at her sprawling farm home outside of town. Today's particular luncheon happened to fall on Temperance's birthday; Tina and Jerry had offered to skip it, but Temperance denied them the pleasure, saying she wanted to go.

While everyone was running around getting the last of their things together, Sarah grabbed Temperance by the crook of her arm and led her into her bedroom.

"I have something for you," she said, in the same sugar-laced voice she used when she wanted something out of someone. Nevertheless, Temperance sat on the bed while Sarah rummaged through her top dresser drawer, finally pulling out a small gold-papered box.

"Here, it's for you, happy birthday," Sarah said, thrusting the box towards Temperance, who took it cautiously. "Go on, open it," Sarah insisted.

Temperance's fingers trembled as they lifted the lid, and saw within the box a simple but attractive gold women's watch. The center of the face was set with what appeared to be a genuine diamond, and each number was replaced by a small emerald. The thin hands ticked around the edge, and Temperance watched them move in awe.

"It's beautiful," she said, then suddenly set the box on the comforter, unsure. "Why me?"

"Because," Sarah said, patiently as if she were explaining to a child. "Mom wanted to give it to you, but it makes her all emotional, since it's a family heirloom and all. She wants you to be part of the family, you know? So she asked me to give it to you instead." She set her hand on Temperance's hand, squeezing it and smiling.

"Wow… really?" Temperance asked. Sarah nodded somberly.

"Really. Come on, would I lie to you?" she asked rhetorically, springing up from the bed and heading towards the door.

"Come on, put it on and let's go!" she said. Temperance acquiesced, snapping the watch around her delicate wrist and following Sarah down the stairs.

Temperance was quiet on the half-hour drive to Aunt Judith's, staring down at the watch on her wrist and swelling with a feeling she hadn't felt in a while; _belonging._ She watched the hands slowly track the edges, and every once in a while she looked up at Sarah, who smiled sweetly at her. And to think, she had thought her to be a brat before!

When they arrived at the well-acred home, Temperance was full to bursting. She smiled at everyone she was introduced to, shaking their hands and even making some small talk, which was unusual for her. She felt like, for the first time since her family abandoned her, she might belong somewhere. Not only did Tina and Jerry accept her, but Jamey liked her and now Sarah did too. And everyone at the party seemed to like her! She was floating on cloud nine when Tina introduced her to Aunt Judith, who was seated on the covered lanai out back of the house, straining the chains on the swinging bench and watching the younger cousins play in the yard.

"Aunt Judith, this is Temperance," she introduced, giving Temperance a gentle push towards the aging woman.

"The girl you took in?" she asked, and Tina nodded hesitantly, apparently unable to find a better wording for it.

"It's nice to see you again," Temperance said. The last time she had seen Aunt Judith was at the family's Fourth of July barbecue earlier that month, but she had never been properly introduced to her, only in passing.

"Well it's nice to…" Aunt Judith began, taking Temperance's hand to shake it and suddenly stopping half-way through her sentence. Her eyes grew wide as she yanked Temperance's hand towards her, glaring at her wrist.

"You thief," she hissed, eyes moving up to Temperance's face, growing wider with each passing moment.

"Wh-what?" Temperance said, and Aunt Judith began clawing at her wrist, which she yanked back in shocked fear.

"Thief!" she shouted, startling Tina and a few surrounding aunts. "Rotten orphan thief!"

"Aunt Judith, what's going on?" Tina asked, obviously confused by the woman's reaction.

"She stole my watch!" Aunt Judith sputtered, pointing a pudgy finger at Temperance. Her entire body seemed to quiver with rage, from her thick jowls to the feet stuffed into shoes two sizes too small.

"She what?" Tina said, utterly confused at this point.

"That girl stole my watch, my heirloom watch! It went missing after the Independence Day barbecue and now I know why; she stole it!" Tina looked down at Temperance's wrist and her eyes grew simultaneously shocked and grief-stricken; sure enough, settled on Temperance's 

wrist was the watch she instantly recognized as belonging to her Aunt Judith, passed down from her mother, from her mother's mother, and beyond.

"I didn't steal anything," Temperance squeaked, shrinking under Tina's fallen, disappointed gaze. "I promise, I'm not a thief!"

"A thief and a liar!" Aunt Judith sputtered. By this point, most of the family had tuned in to the argument taking place.

"Temperance, what's going on?" Tina asked, imploring the girl to somehow spin a story that would explain everything without a shadow of a doubt.

"I didn't steal it, I promise," she repeated, eyes brimming. "Sarah gave it to me."

"How dare she," Aunt Judith growled, rising to her feet, huffing and puffing as she did. "First she steals my watch, then she lies about it, then she tries to blame my sweet great niece! Tina, what sort of garbage do they scrape up off the street for you?"

"Aunt Judith…" Tina begged, but she would hear none of it.

"You give me that watch back this very second, you rotten, you awful, you thieving little scum…" She continued to sputter insults as Temperance unclasped the watch and handed it to the woman, who snatched it and held it to her chest.

"Get her out," Aunt Judith said, now spitting with rage. "Get that child, that thief, out of my house before she steals anything else. Now!" Bewildered, Tina collected Jerry and the kids, and they left under the weight of the family's judgments.

The drive home was silent, with Temperance staring out the window most of the ride, trying to hold back tears. How could they believe that she would steal? Did they believe it? She wouldn't know until they spoke, but everyone had remained fairly tight-lipped in the car.

When they reached the house Temperance could not make herself get out of the car, and remained seated in the back seat until Jerry opened her door and ushered her quietly out of the vehicle. When they entered the house, everybody had retreated to different parts, and Temperance found herself alone with Jerry in the living room. Memories of Chuck still haunted her, and she remained wary, keeping her back to the wall.

"Temperance, sit," he said, taking a seat on one end of the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Temperance sat on the far end of the couch, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. Closed off, terrified. Jerry removed his glasses, rubbing them on the inside of his t-shirt before replacing them. Looking for some clarity.

"Temperance," he began somberly. At the tone of his voice, her tears began to flow. "Hey, don't cry," he said gently, handing her the box of tissues from the coffee table. "Temperance, I don't believe you stole anything." Temperance looked up, slightly surprised; he didn't?

"I have faith in you, Temperance. You have lived under my roof for six months, and if you were a thief, I think I'd know it."

"I didn't steal anything," Temperance reiterated, and Jerry smiled sadly.

"I don't think you did, Temper," he said. "I think Tina is just scared right now, because she doesn't want to believe it either. She's upstairs now… she cares about you a lot, Temperance; we all do. She just needs some space to calm down, is all." Temperance nodded, dabbing the tissue against her cheeks. Suddenly they heard a howl from upstairs.

"Tina?" Jerry called out, rising from the couch and stopping at the foot of the stairs. "Honey, are you alright?" They heard the sobs grow louder, more inconsolable, and Jerry rushed up the stairs, Temperance close behind him.

They found Tina in Temperance's room, on her knees in the middle of the floor. Around her were various valuables—a set of diamond studs, a wad of cash, a few necklaces and bracelets of Sarah's. Sarah herself kneeled next to her mother, patting her back consolingly.

"What is it?" Jerry asked, and Tina shook her head, burying her face in her hands.

"I didn't want to believe it," she sobbed, voice muffled. Jerry kneeled in front of her.

"Believe what, hon?" he asked, but the tone of his voice revealed his sorrow; he already knew what.

"Jewelry, my jewelry, and Sarah's too. And money? Didn't we buy you everything you needed?" Tina asked, looking straight up at Temperance with beseeching eyes. "Didn't we give you what you needed?" Temperance took a step back, eyes jumping between Tina and the valuables, then to Sarah, then Tina again.

"I didn't… I didn't take anything from you," Temperance said slowly, articulating the words in such a way as to make them as clear as possible. Tina began to sob again, harder this time, and it took the better part of two minutes for her to regain control.

"Please stop lying to me, Temperance. I want to help you," she said. Sarah patted her mother's back.

"She's a klepto, mom, she can't be helped," Sarah said in a mock-soothing voice.

"Sarah, be quiet," Jerry snapped, voice harsh for the first time in the six months Temperance had lived with them, and Sarah fell silent.

"I promise, I didn't steal anything from you!" Temperance said again, this time louder, with more force. Tina shook her head.

"I could have believed it, I could have before, but now? With all these things I found right here, in your room? How can you tell me you never stole from me when it's all right here?" Tina held the items up, as if to clarify.

"In my room? Where?" Temperance asked, bewildered. The earrings she had seen Tina wearing the other day, and the necklaces and bracelets she knew were Sarah's.

"Please, Temperance, please don't play dumb with us," Tina begged. "It hurts too much. We caught you, okay? Please just be honest with us, Temperance. Please." Temperance didn't know what possessed her—maybe it was the pleading tone in Tina's voice, begging her to say what she wanted to hear. Maybe it was Jerry's quiet faith in her, falling to pieces. Maybe it was the way Jamey stared at her in disbelief, like when you find out your favorite movie star is a total jerk and won't even stop to sign an autograph for you. Or maybe… maybe she just lost her mind.

"I… I did it, you're right," she said quietly. "I'm sorry." Tina began to sob quietly into her hands, and Temperance could have sworn for a second she saw Sarah's eyes flash. Jamey wandered into his room, the last time she would see him, and Jerry took her shoulder gently and led her down into the living room.

Within an hour the calls were made, and by dusk that evening, the painfully familiar Oldsmobile pulled up in front of the Taylor household. The Prune stepped out, dressed smartly in slacks and a button-down collared shirt despite the July heat, and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Jerry walked down the stairs with a trash bag full of belongings—Temperance's belongings.

"These are yours," he said, setting the bag on the floor next to the couch. "Everything that really belongs to you, anyway." He said the words without bite, just remorse, and Temperance felt everything inside of her deflate.

"I'm sorry," was all she could say, choking back her tears. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see his eyes covered in a fine mist as well.

"I know you are, Temper. I know you are."

As they drove away from the Taylor's house, Temperance dared to steal one last glance at the place she had called home for the past six months. Her eye caught the second-story window, the one that corresponded to her bedroom. She saw Sarah standing in the window, watching the vehicle crawl down the road. And while she was unable to discern exactly what face the girl was making... she was fairly sure it was a smile.

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, so a few things. Firstly, the second half of this chapter was inspired by the movie _The Good Son_. If you haven't seen it, you probably should (unless you scare easily during movies... then you probably shouldn't.) Second of all, you may or may not have noticed the references to three particular constellations in this chapter... cookie points to whoever can figure out why I chose them. :) I love your reviews, so please keep them coming!


	9. The Hero and The Chained Lady

**A/N:** You guys are great... did you know that? Really great. This is like, my little reader appreciation moment... because I really do appreciate every single person who reads my fics, puts them on alert, leaves reviews... it really just brightens my day when I get those e-mails. So thank you for that!

A few of you guessed about the constellations in the last chapter... and you were sort of right. Delphinus was mentioned in _Stargazer in a Puddle_ as being Brennan and her mother's favorite constellation, because it is the dolphin. But Andromeda and Perseus have their own significance, not as being mentioned in the episode (which they never were).

The constellation Perseus in astronomy is known as "the hero", which I think is really fitting for Booth because he is, by all accounts, a modern day hero. He fights crime, he saves lives... he's a hero. The constellation of Andromeda is known to astronomers as "the chained lady" because of the Greek mythological story of Perseus and Andromeda. To me, Brennan is definitely a 'chained lady' emotionally... after all the trauma she has endured in her life, with being abandoned by her family, put into foster care, etc... she is definitely emotionally tied to her trauma in many ways. It shapes who she is as a person, hence the metaphorical "chains".

There is also the Greek myth of Perseus and Andromeda, which gives a kind of foreshadowing as to what goes on between The Hero and The Chained Lady in this chapter. :) For those who don't know the myth... to make a long story short, Perseus saves Andromeda from the wrath of Poseidon's sea monster, to whom she was sacrificed to pay for her mother's insults to the sea god and his Nereids. Afterwards they fall in love, get married, fight a small war over the marriage (Andromeda was betrothed to another guy... oops), and end up living happily ever after in the sky for all of eternity.

Now, armed with that knowledge (or if you skipped over all of that, unarmed)... enjoy the chapter! :)

* * *

_ The ecstasy, the being free,  
The big black cloud over you and me  
And after that, the upwards fall,  
and were we angels after all?  
I don't know, I don't know..._

_- The Night Starts Here, Stars_

* * *

"Wow," was all Booth could say when Brennan fell silent. All the words in the English language to describe awe, pain, revulsion, anger, and his brain could only wrap around one.

"Yeah," Brennan said, leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes, as if suddenly extremely tired. Emotionally drained, more like.

"And you haven't talked to them since?" Booth asked tentatively, voice small and unsure of itself. She shook her head, lids still closed.

"Not talked to them, no. I saw Sarah at Northwestern once, in passing. I guess she went there too, but I never saw her again. Just once, just walking by. She didn't say anything, but I know she recognized me," Brennan explained. "You could tell by how surprised she looked. To see me… to see me in college."

"She didn't expect you to be a success," Booth said.

"Nobody did," Brennan responded, her tone flat, voice gritty. There was an uncomfortable, tense silence, in which Booth shifted on the couch to face Brennan again.

"Well, I guess you proved them wrong then, huh?" he said, cocking an eyebrow. Brennan's face melted into a smile, and she looked down at the couch cushions.

"Yeah, I guess I did," she said quietly, corners of her mouth still upturned. She sighed again and looked up at the clock—it was late. When had spending late nights with her partner evolved from sporadic to habitual?

"I should get going," she said, standing from the couch.

"Are you sure? It's late," Booth said, also looking up at the clock. Nearly two.

"I'll be okay," Brennan said. They stared at each other for a while, in the peculiar way that almost-lovers are wont to, and Brennan finally had to break his gaze when he would not look away. Booth staying at her house was one thing, but if she were to stay here, tonight… there was still a line, thin but ever-present, and she had to respect that. She didn't have to like it… just respect it.

"Let me walk you to your car then," Booth said, flicking on the outdoor lights as they approached the front door. They walked across the grass, wet with nighttime dew, and he opened the door of the car for her.

"Thanks," she said, sliding into the driver's seat. Booth leaned against the door, peering into the vehicle; rather than put the keys into the ignition, Brennan set them in her lap, staring back up at Booth. The air buzzed heavily, with cicadas and something else, and Brennan felt for a poetic second that the cicadas gave a voice to the tension strung between them. It twanged, it vibrated, it tugged at her core and his like a tether holding their centers, pulling them inward.

"You're sure that you're alright?" Booth said, leaning into the car, his face drawing hazardously near to hers. She could see the dark flecks in his eyes; he could count her eyelashes.

"I… yeah," she said, uncharacteristically lost for words. She paused, eyes flitting around like a wanton hummingbird, finally settling again on his.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah," she affirmed. "Thanks, Booth. For, you know—"

"Don't mention it, Bones," he said, turning his head slightly and giving one of his charming grins. "I'm always here for you. Always."

"I know," she said, and she meant it. She knew. His eyes fell and he nodded, and as he moved to leave, she spoke.

"Hey," she said. He turned back towards her and as he turned, she leaned in, bestowing a quick, spontaneous peck on his cheek. "Thanks… for letting me know." Booth touched the underside of her chin with his finger, and felt her swallow hard. They watched each other's eyes dance back and forth, unsure of where it was safe to land. They finally landed in each other; dark, open pores and light pools, fixated, mesmerized.

"Booth…" Brennan said warily as his face moved in towards hers. Rather than turning his head as she had expected, though, he kept his face straight, touching foreheads with her, letting their noses lean in towards one another. They were opposite sides of a mirror, ink blots mimicking one another. Symmetry.

He had come in ninety percent, and now it would be up to her to sprint the final ten yards. She paused, hesitant, and his stomach began to churn frantically, though he did not show it; was it a mistake? He was the heart man, but had he misread the signs? They had, in this moment, reached a point where their relationship could alight, surpass all constellations and explode into infinity… or plummet.

When she did not move, in either direction, he spoke.

"Have you ever waited for something?" he whispered, Brennan feeling his hot breath against her face as he spoke. "Seen it, touched it, felt it pass by… waited every day for the moment when, instead of passing by you, it would run right into you? The day you would collide?" He paused, and in his silence she began to speak.

"You feel like…" she began, searching for the words. Head, off. Heart, on. "You feel like you're on different planes, in different realities. Like parallel lines; you might never actually cross paths, even if you lie only micrometers apart."

"That's pretty close," Booth said.

"Not even room to breathe," Brennan said. "Lines that move towards infinity in both directions, never stopping… but never crossing. You can see it, but you can't touch it."

"You can try to touch it, try to feel it, but it's just—"

"—out of reach," Brennan finished.

There are moments when you can visualize, actually see yourself crossing a line. It becomes greater than a metaphor, than a societal construct to keep you in culturally acceptable territory. It is a time, it is a place, it is a person; it is a moment that catches fire and in a brief second you find yourself suddenly standing where a line once was, but it has gone.

And then you realize that you don't actually cross lines—you obliterate them. You wipe them out of the sand, wash them from the earth. Lines can't be crossed, because in crossing over to the opposite side, you imply that it is possible for the line to remain, that you can return to your original stance if the grass isn't quite as green on the other side. But that's not true—lines are more like cages, like fences that must be torn down in seeking what lies beyond them. You can peer through, poke your fingers between the links of chain, but you cannot truly 'cross' a line; you must destroy it, remove it from your path.

And in that destruction, in that moment of flame and flight, there is no turning back. There is no line; there is no safe zone. You either confine yourself and remain a captive behind your lines, your walls… or you destroy them and never look back.

When their lips first touched they were like two strangers, meeting on the street for the first time. Composed, curious individuals, testing the waters. _Hello, how are you? Tell me something about yourself._

Then the fleeting wariness was edged out by something hungrier, something long repressed and finally unchained. They became well acquainted fast, delving into each other. While Booth had never been a scientific man, he was suddenly overwhelmed with a passion for empirical study. He wanted—needed—to study every observable detail of this woman. Her touch, her smell, her taste, her sound. Everything he could observe he would, drinking her in, every last drop. The way the middle of her waist squirmed when he touched it, quickly settling when the ticklish sensation wore off. The curve of her shoulders, her chest, her hips. The woman beneath the wounded.

Brennan found herself being lifted out of the car, onto her feet, moving clumsily together across the yard. Her hands began to explore him in a new fashion. She found herself tracing her fingers through his hair, his jaw, his neck, the broad expanse of his chest. They were not aggressive fingers, but investigative ones; they wanted to know. To know his nooks and crannies, the sensation of the touch of his skin, the curves and angles of his shape. To know.

_When I am with you, when  
I am in you,  
you are me  
and my soul flies,  
and what of me you are is full;  
you warm my core  
and I am whole._

_When you are gone but  
here still, in my heart  
my thoughts are wild  
and so are free  
and no conquistador could stop  
the what you are  
and feel to me._

_When I can touch you  
and your heart  
and thoughts that linger  
I become unraveled so  
and sewn together, pieces of  
you patching up what of me has been  
so long gone._

_And then when I and this love meet  
and nothing stands between a  
heart and beat,  
infinity becomes the clock  
that winds me up and never stops  
and fine with me,  
so long as you can stay._

_I am me when you are here  
and when you go I will give way  
to something worse, when stillness creeps  
upon this given heart that  
beats for life and fears the day,  
when you are gone  
I fall astray._

* * *

**A/N: **A copyright notice - while "Bones" and all of its characters, plots, etc. are the total and complete property of Fox, the poem featured in this chapter is the total and complete property of myself, K. Elisabeth. Just to keep it clear. :)

Beyond that, I am not a smut writer, so that might be as close to a sex scene as you ever get out of me. xD I just tend to leave a lot of those scenes to the imagination... so go ahead, use your own creativity... like they say at BK, have it your way. :)

Love it? Hate it? Outraged that I am not a smut writer? Leave a review and let me know!


	10. The Sign of the Gopher

**A/N:** I was in the mood for a quick update, especially after where we left off! I hope you like light and funny, because that's definitely the overall mood for this chapter. I was having a shit-tastic day earlier, but then I went to work and spent time with my amazing co-workers, and they put me in a great mood. I have several co-workers at the store where I'm employed, but there are two in particular who I'm always scheduled with, and they are absolutely hysterical. I feel so blessed that I get to work with them, because they make everything we have to do 10x more fun. So after spending the afternoon/evening with them, there was no way I could write something serious and heavy. And besides, we've had enough serious and heavy in the past few chapters... it's time for a little happy. :) Enjoy!

* * *

_ How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad?  
Trying hard not to smile, though I feel bad  
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral  
Can't understand what I mean?  
Well, you soon will  
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve  
I have a history of taking off my shirt..._

_- One Week, Barenaked Ladies  
_

* * *

They waltzed clumsily across the yard, grappling for each other in the dark, dewy night while avoiding shrubs and sprinkler heads. They navigated around these obstacles carefully, their goal being the front door, and eventually, the bedroom.

One thing they hadn't counted on, however, was gopher holes. Booth felt his heel sink into one as he walked backwards, arms settled around her waist, lips firmly attached. He got the sense that he was losing his balance, and it wasn't just the fact that being sick gave him awful vertigo—he really was losing his balance. He grasped her in a vain attempt to stay upright, but, being small and beautiful, she was not such a great physical anchor. He ended up dragging her down with him, Booth dropping backwards in the grass, Brennan toppling over on top of him a brief second later. He groaned loudly when she landed on him, their foreheads crashing into each other, her dead weight socking him in the stomach like a fist.

"Oww," he groaned as she rolled over, lying on her back in the grass next to him and bringing her hand to her forehead.

"You got that right," she said dourly, touching her face gently with her fingers. Brennan felt as if she had been hit with an anvil, like in the cartoons she had left Parker watching earlier that evening. Her frontal bone ached, and the pain was increased twofold by an incredibly loud sneeze coming from her right. Booth moaned as the whiplash of the sneeze drilled his head into the ground, forehead pain increased by the load on his sinuses.

"Bless you," Brennan said reflexively.

"Thanks," Booth said. They turned and looked at each other, visible in the floodlights that illuminated the path to Booth's front door, and began to laugh. It was infectious and cyclic—Brennan's laughter made Booth laugh harder, and the sight of him laughing tickled her even further. Neither could stop while the other continued, and as they fueled the fire the volume increased, to the point where a neighbor's window was suddenly illuminated with light. They attempted to stifle their noise, but it was absolutely useless—they couldn't stop it. The giggling fit lasted one minute, two minutes, five. They laughed until their stomachs hurt and their heads flared, and still continued. Finally, several minutes after it began, the laughing fit died out, leaving them gasping for air and occasionally stifling a giggle.

Booth finally lifted himself out of the grass, groaning as the sudden drop and then rise in blood pressure brought on a fresh wave of cranial pain. He offered Brennan a hand up, which she took, and they trailed back into the house slowly, fingers laced. When the front door latched behind them Brennan walked into the kitchen, freeing two Ziploc bags from the cupboard and filling them with ice from the dispenser. She pressed one against Booth's forehead as he sat down at the kitchen table, and he took it from her, holding it against his head as she mirrored his action. They continued to look up at each other, giggle, then stare back down at the table. Neither spoke for a while, allowing the ice to ease the throbbing pain.

"That was…" Booth began, but was unable to put the situation into exact words. Instead he shook his head, still chuckling.

"A disaster?" Brennan offered.

"Sort of," Booth agreed with a smile. "It might have been a sign."

"I don't believe in signs," Brennan said matter-of-factly, turning her ice pack over and pressing the fresh, cold side against her face. "But I do know that if you had sneezed on me, I would have been extremely unhappy."

"More like extremely ready to kick my ass," Booth corrected, and Brennan chuckled.

"That too," she agreed. They both sighed, almost contentedly, and watched each other from across the table. Brennan felt a foot touch hers, and she pushed it back, allowing the two feet to tussle under the table. Booth reached under the table to grab at her foot but misestimated the height of the surface, hitting his head on the table as he bent down quickly.

"Augh," he groaned, screwing his eyes shut as lights popped in front of his eyes.

"Be careful!" Brennan chastised, grabbing his ice pack off the table and handing it back to him as he raised his head slowly. "At this rate you're going to have a concussion before morning." Booth didn't argue and continued to ice his head, feeling considerably better when, a few minutes later, he felt a small foot rub up and down the length of his calf.

The microwave clock shone bright across the dark kitchen, lit only by the bulb over the range. It was nearly three in the morning, and they had both begun to yawn. Booth leaned back in his chair, watching Brennan from across the table, head cocked slightly.

"Yes?" she asked, noticing.

"I was just wondering if you're going to stay the night," he said, with none of the night's earlier coyness.

"There's not much of the night left," Brennan pointed out, looking at the clock.

"So is that a yes?" Booth asked, leaning in on the table.

"I suppose so," she said, feigning casual apathy. He smiled at her, bringing his face close to hers but not making a move. He got up from the table and exited the kitchen, heading towards his bedroom, and Brennan followed shortly after him. While he was in the bathroom running the sink—probably brushing his teeth, although the sound of running water in a man's bathroom could mean a lot of things—she rummaged through his drawers, finding one of his oversized athletic t-shirts and changing into it, letting her pants and blouse hit the floor in a neat pile. When Booth walked back into his bedroom he found her nestled into the abundance of plush pillows on his bed, reading the back cover of the book he had left sitting on the bedside table.

"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer?" Brennan asked as Booth hopped into bed opposite of her, in boxers and what she had observed was colloquially known as a "wife beater".

"Yeah, so?" he said defensively, taking the book out of her hands and dropping it back on the bedside table. "It's my favorite."

"I didn't say anything," Brennan said, voice airy. "I agree, it's a good book."

"Good," Booth said, melting back into his previous smile. He hunkered down into the pillows, pulling the down comforter up over the both of them. His eyes traced the length of Brennan's bare legs as he pulled the comforter up over them. She leaned against his arm, signaling him to drape it around her, allowing her to snuggle into his side. He looked down at the top of her head, and she in return looked upward, eyes fixated on a point in the center of his forehead.

"You've got a knot," she said, touching her fingers gently to the spot where a large red lump was forming. He winced and she withdrew her hand quickly, letting it fall onto his abdomen.

"Sorry," she said. He shook his head, looking down at her face and smiling.

"You have one too," he said, leaning in and letting his lips fall on the spot; he thought she would let him, and she did. "Twins," he noted, and she smiled back.

"Hardly," she said, resting her cheek against his chest and falling silent. He reached over to the bedside lamp and pulled the chain gently, casting them into the dark. The streetlight outside peeped through the blinds, giving Booth just enough light to see the top of Brennan's head, to watch her fingers trace designs on the comforter, slowing down until her hand stilled, breathing slow and even. He kissed the top of her head, slouching down into the mattress.

"Good night, Temperance," he whispered, unsure of whether she was awake or asleep.

"Good night, Booth," she murmured in response, adjusting herself slightly to his movement, then growing still again.

A few hours later, seven o'clock rolled in and Booth's internal alarm sounded. It was a relic of his military days—he had an incredible ability to wake up at the exact same time, every morning, without fail. Booth roused to consciousness and suddenly became acutely aware of Brennan's presence in his bed. For an incredibly brief moment he had forgotten why or how she had ended up there, and his heart shot up into his throat—then the memory of the past night poured over him, and he could not help but smile. She was still asleep, curved into him like a half-moon, her back leaned into his chest. His arms were wrapped around her, his nose resting just over the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. After a few minutes of serenity, he made the painful decision to wake her.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said, touching her shoulder and whispering into her ear. She hmmed and turned to face him, eyes still tired and unfocused, smiling as she found his face.

"Hey stud," she murmured, eyes closing as she pressed her face into the pillow, grasping for a few extra minutes of sleep. He smiled, slightly shocked by the greeting, and shook his head; she was not a morning person. He rolled out of the bed to relieve himself, and by the time he had taken care of business and splashed his face with water, Brennan was sitting up against the headboard, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and attempting to greet the day.

"You with us?" he asked jokingly, and she smiled sleepily.

"I'm getting there," she said.

"You'd better get there faster," he pointed out, looking at the clock. "We're supposed to be at the Jeffersonian in an hour."

"We?" she asked.

"Yeah, we," he said. "You know, you look at bones, I catch the bad guys. We." She nodded, sitting up and raising her arms over her head in a long, cat-like stretch, finally easing herself out of bed.

"Wait," she said, peering out the window as if something she had seen suddenly brought her to her present realization. "Booth, it's Saturday. We don't work on Saturday."

"We do when there's a murderer who needs catching," he said, pulling out clothes and laying them on the rumpled bedding. "Just because you're not working on this case, doesn't mean the rest of us aren't."

"Oh," Brennan said. "Right."

"We're getting a lot closer too," Booth said.

"That's good," Brennan said encouragingly, though feeling slightly down knowing that she was not a part of it. Booth took due note of her expression.

"We'd be even closer if you were on the case," he added, and she beamed at him from across the room.

"Thanks, Booth," she said. "I wish I could help."

"You keep doing what you need to do," Booth said vaguely. "That's help enough."

They dressed, Brennan picking the previous day's clothes up off the floor and putting them back on, collecting her hair into a messy bun with the hairtie from around her wrist. Booth got Parker up and fed, and conferred with Rebecca on the phone, deciding that she would take Parker for the remainder of the weekend and allow Booth to have him the next weekend.

An hour and a half later they pulled into the Jeffersonian's parking garage, entering the building together. As they passed a large mirrored wall, they both stopped and eyed their reflection—Brennan's wrinkled clothes, their tired eyes, the bright, protruding knots on their foreheads. Booth shook his head.

"We look…" Brennan began, grasping for a word to accurately describe their appearance.

"Rough," Booth finished. She nodded.

"Yeah," she agreed slowly, closing in on her reflection and taking a better look at the unicorn horn gracing her face. "Rough is about right."

When they entered the lab, their rough appearance did not go unnoticed. The team followed Booth and Brennan with their eyes as they entered, Angela in particular picking up on the subtleties of their appearance, as well as the less subtle markers.

"God, sweetie, what happened to you?" she asked, descending from the platform and sweeping over Brennan with her eyes. "You look a hot mess."

"A what?" Brennan asked. Angela shook her head.

"Nothing. What happened to your face?" she asked, touching her fingers to the red spot. Brennan twinged beneath her touch.

"Uh… I fell," Brennan responded. Angela gave her a suspicious look, then turned her eyes to Booth, who had been trying to edge away unnoticed. When she saw the similar mark on his forehead, she put the pieces together, and her eyes widened.

"Sweetie, let's talk," she said, grabbing the crook of Brennan's arm and dragging her towards her office. She shut the door behind them and turned to face Brennan, face alight with shock.

"What happened last night?" Angela demanded. Brennan shrugged.

"I don't know what you mean," she said. Angela huffed.

"Bren, don't give me that," she said. "The last time I saw you, those clothes were clean, and your face didn't look like _that_," she said, motioning to the unicorn horn. "So spill; what happened?" Brennan sighed, lowering herself onto her couch.

"After I left the lab last night I went over to Booth's place to cook dinner for him and Parker, since they were both sick," she explained.

"Just dinner?" Angela said skeptically, and Brennan nodded.

"Yes, just dinner," she said. "I cooked, we ate."

"So what, then you had after-dinner, get-well sex?" Angela asked.

"No, Ange!" Brennan exclaimed. "We never had sex."

"Well why the hell not?" Angela asked.

"Gophers," Brennan answered plainly.

"Goph—_what_?" Angela sputtered, sitting next to Brennan on the couch. "Okay, sweetie, you've got to explain that one to me." Brennan spent the next few minutes clarifying most of the night's going-ons to Angela, leaving out a few of the more personal moments. Angela followed the story, shaking her head as it progressed, smiling broadly.

"You two are insufferable," she finally said, standing up and setting her arms akimbo against her hips. "You know that? Absolutely insufferable."

"Uh, thanks?" Brennan said, and before either of them could say another word, Booth entered the office, knocking on the door as he pushed it open.

"Hey, let's go," Booth said to Brennan, who scrunched her nose.

"Why, where are we going?" she asked. Booth rolled his eyes.

"Sweets, hello, every Saturday afternoon for the past four months?" he said. She sighed, grabbing her purse from the desk and shrugging her shoulders at Angela, who watched Booth with a wicked smile.

"I'll talk to you more later, Ange," Brennan said, waving as Booth ushered her out the door.

"See you, Angela," Booth said.

"Bye, Unicorn Boy," Angela said under her breath, holding back a throaty laugh. She watched them through the broad Plexiglas as they bickered the entire way down the hall, his hand still on her elbow.

"Absolutely insufferable," Angela said, shaking her head and flicking the office light off as she left.

* * *

**A/N: **Yay for fun and happy! If you were hoping they had sex... sorry, but I just don't think B&B would have done it like that. If they had, it would have seemed like Booth was taking advantage of Brennan in a weak moment (which he wouldn't), or that Brennan was giving herself up easily because she was emotionally damaged and needy (which she wouldn't). So for now, no sex... just gophers. xD As an aside, this chapter is unintentionally rife with personal fragments of me and my ex when things between us were good, which I realized after I wrote it. Despite my ex being the King of Jack-assery, a part of me still loves him, and probably always will. Oh well, I suppose that's how it goes sometimes, right?

Anyway... as for the chapter... Love it? Hate it? Mad at me because they didn't have sex? Crazy about gophers? Leave me a review and let me know! :)


	11. Something Else to Hide Behind

**A/N:** So sorry about the wait! I've had a killer week, between classes and work and interpersonal issues... blah blah. Such is life, right? On a more interesting note, I am taking a Linguistic Anthropology class this semester, and the professor is amazing. His focus is on the languages and dialects of the Inuit people of the arctic circle, ironically enough... so I have been having a lot of inspiration regarding my other in-progress story, The Hands in the Snow. You can expect another chapter of that one up soon, methinks! :)

Anyway, a lot of you have been asking about Brennan's high school life while in the foster care system... so once you get past some of the fun at the beginning of this chapter, we'll delve into that a bit. Enjoy!

* * *

_'Cause the weak will seek the weaker  
til they've broken them  
Could you get it back again?  
Would it be the same?  
Fulfillment to their lack of strength at your expense,  
Left you with no defense,  
they tore it down...  
And I have felt the same as you,  
I've felt the same,  
As you, I have felt the same..._

_- Simon, Lifehouse_

* * *

Brennan and Booth sat uncomfortably on opposite ends of the couch in the waiting room of Sweets's office. The receptionist had given them matching peculiar looks when they walked in, and Brennan had quickly seated herself facing away from the woman, face nearly as red as the bump on her forehead. Booth discreetly rested on the other end, ankles crossed, thumbs twirling around each other in his lap. By the time the awkward vibe settling in the room became deep enough to dig into with a shovel, Sweets opened his office door, greeting them with his typical smile and open arms.

"Hey guys," he said, nodding and smiling. "Come on in." Brennan and Booth eyed each other discreetly, then rose in tandem and entered Sweets's office. When they sat in the two seats positioned across from his desk, side by side, was when Sweets became acutely aware of their tension, and the unique marks on their faces.

"So, I was thinking—woah, what happened to you two?" he said as he sat down, ogling their matching lumps. Each of them diverted their eyes from Sweets's gaze, in opposite directions from each other. Sweets's smile only got larger.

"I fell," Booth said brusquely, not offering any elaboration. Brennan continued to scan the carpet for loose threads, spots, or a hole to fall into.

"Uh-huh," Sweets said, his face nonchalant but his hands flipping to a new page in his notebook and grappling for a pen with an excited urgency that betrayed his calm façade. "So you both fell, then?" he asked delicately, directing his question to Brennan.

"Yes," she said shortly, bringing her eyes up and nodding confidently. "That is what happened. I fell."

"Right," Sweets said, scrawling a few shorthand notes, then setting his pad of paper aside and folding his hands in his lap serenely. "Look guys, this is our safe zone, remember? This is where we can be open and honest with each other. You can tell me anything. Don't be shy." After a few moments of silence, Booth leaned in, elbows resting against his knees, eyeing Sweets.

"You want the truth?" he said. Sweets smiled.

"Whenever you're ready, Agent Booth," he said, reclaiming his lined paper and clicking the pen into readiness.

"Okay," Booth said. "Last night—"

"Booth," Brennan said in a light, tense tone. "What are you doing?"

"Dr. Brennan, please, let Agent Booth speak his piece," Sweets said, holding a hand up to quiet her and facing Booth. "Please continue."

"Anyway," Booth said, giving Brennan a sidelong look with what she swore was the glint of a smile in his eye. "Last night, I was home with my son Parker, who's sick. Well, he got me sick too, but that's not really the point. So here I am, watching cartoons on the couch with my son when I get a phone call from Brennan," he paused for dramatic effect, watching Sweets scribble notes intensely, his face hardly betraying that fervor.

"Dr. Brennan called you, for what?" Sweets encouraged. Booth continued.

"She called and asked how I was doing, which isn't weird or anything—we usually talk on the phone several times a day, especially when we're not working," he explained. Sweets continued to write like the paper might disintegrate before he could finish.

"Uh huh, and what did you talk about?" Sweets asked.

"She asked how I was, and I told her I was feeling under the weather. So she offered to cook dinner for us—me and my son, I mean."

"That was altruistic of you, Dr. Brennan," Sweets commented. She snorted.

"I am human, Dr. Sweets," she said. He smiled.

"I'm aware," he replied. "So then what happened?" he asked Booth.

"Well, she came over with all this food to make dinner—soup. It was really good, too. The chicken was just right and the potatoes were roasted before she put them in so they had this flavor like—"

"Dr. Brennan's culinary skills will be duly noted, Agent Booth," Sweets said. "So she came over, cooked you dinner, and left?"

"Well no, she stayed to eat, too," Booth said. "Me and Parker and her ate dinner and watched TV and afterwards she cleaned up and Parker went to sleep. So I went into the kitchen to help her clean up when…" he trailed off, rubbing his tired eyes with his hands, hearing the sound of Sweets's pen scrambling across the paper, and feeling Brennan's tenseness beside him. He smiled behind his hands, then looked up.

"All of a sudden we hear this noise, right?" Booth said. Sweets looked up, and Brennan released the breath she had been holding in a loud, sudden sigh.

"Are you alright, Dr. Brennan?" Sweets asked. She nodded.

"Yes, I'm fine, sorry," she said, leaning back in her chair, legs crossed. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Alright," Sweets said. "So you heard a noise? What was it?"

"Well," Booth said, concealing a grin. "We hear this noise outside of the window, while we're putting the dishes away, and we go to see what it is. We don't see anything, so we decide to walk outside and check the perimeter of the house. I take my gun, and of course she's got me so she doesn't need a gun."

"Right, right," Sweets said, hand hardly keeping up with Booth's tale. "What was it?"

"So we go outside and we're walking around the house—my house—looking for what was making the noise. Then I hear this—" He brought his hands down on the coffee table between them suddenly. "BAM!" Sweets jumped, as did Brennan. Booth leaned back in his seat in a self-satisfied way.

"And you'll never guess what it was," Booth said.

"What was it?" Sweets asked genuinely.

"The biggest damn gopher I've ever seen in my entire life," Booth said plain-faced, shaking his own head in mock disbelief.

"Oh come on!" Sweets said, tossing his pen and paper on the coffee table.

"I'm serious!" Booth insisted. Brennan bit her bottom lip to pin in the swell of laughter that was rising in her throat, choosing to look up at the ceiling instead of at Booth's animated expressions, or Sweets's disbelieving scowl. "It was huge, at least this big," Booth said, holding his arms out their entire span, roughly six feet. "Never seen one that big in my life; I'm tellin' you, I think it was a mutant."

"Okay so, what, I'm supposed to believe that you both got identical knots on your foreheads from fighting off a mutant gopher?" Sweets said sarcastically. Booth nodded.

"It was epic," he said somberly. "He almost had us. I was afraid, truly."

"But you managed to escape," Sweets said in an entirely unamused voice. Booth nodded.

"Within an inch of our lives, I'm tellin' you," he said, leaning in towards Sweets over the table and pinching an imaginary grape between his thumb and index finger. Sweets turned to Brennan, who was still adamantly avoiding looking at either one of them for fear of lapsing into uncontrollable laughter.

"Dr. Brennan, is this true?" he asked with tight lips, and it took everything in her power to nod with a straight face.

"Yes," she said, just barely maintaining composure. "Just like he said." Sweets closed the file in his lap carefully, clicking the pen again and setting it on the desk.

"Fine, guys," he said. "If you don't want to talk about it, to tell me—your trained mental health professional—about the important going-ons in your life, that's fine. But don't delude yourselves—I _know_ these things," he said, giving them each the stink eye. "I know, okay? You don't have to say it, I know! But if you don't _want_ to say it, if you _can't_ say it, then fine. Fine! Be that way." He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at them, looking from one to the other, awaiting a response. Booth and Brennan gave each other sidelong looks.

"I'm just sayin', the thing was huge…" Booth muttered, squirming in his chair.

"Fine!" Sweets exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. "Fine. Giant gophers. Fine. Whatever! If that's all you two have to say, then I'm going to have to ask Agent Booth to leave, please."

"Wait, what? Why?" Booth asked. "I was just having a good time, Sweets, I didn't mean to—"

"This doesn't have anything to do with your fable, Aesop," Sweets said. "It's just gotten to the part of the hour where I want to talk to Dr. Brennan independently. So, barring any rodent issues, please wait for the rest of the hour in the lobby." He shooed Booth out the door, who made a face but acquiesced. Sweets took his seat and flipped open a different set of notes, looking up at Brennan with a peculiar look.

"So," he said, taking the pen in hand.

"So," she mirrored, making an effort to clear her face of any indicators of her thoughts.

"Last time you were here we talked about the Taylors, correct?" Sweets asked. Brennan nodded.

"That's right," she said, vividly remembering the discussion content.

"So after you left the Taylor home, you went back to stay with Janice at the group home, right?" Sweets asked. She nodded.

"Yeah, for about three weeks," she said. "Then I was with the Robertsons."

"How were they?" Sweets asked. Brennan shrugged.

"They were alright. Nice people, I guess. They ended up getting pregnant and needed my room for the nursery," she said unaffectedly. Sweets frowned.

"Does that happen a lot with foster families?" he asked. She shrugged again.

"I suppose," she said. "Things happen, they get pregnant or they get a new job out of the county and can't take you with them—you have to stay in the same county's system—or something else happens and you end up back where you started."

"Another name on the shoe, right?" Sweets asked. Brennan pursed her lips.

"Yeah," she said. "Another name." Sweets took a few short notes, mostly disconnected words.

"I wanted to talk about what high school was like for you while you were in the system," Sweets said. "We've talked a lot about your home life, but surely school must have been difficult. With every new family you switched schools, right?"

"Sometimes," Brennan said. "It depended on where they lived. If they were in the same zone, you could stay at the same school. If not, you switched."

"How many different high schools did you go to?" Sweets asked. Brennan did not need time to think about her answer.

"Four," she said. "Every high school in the county."

"You must have made a lot of friends, being at so many different schools," Sweets postulated. Brennan's face darkened.

"I didn't really have friends," she said. "Nobody wants to be friends with the foster kid."

_October, 1992_

The students all sat forward in their desks, hunched over math tests of varying completion. All of them except for Temperance Brennan—the only junior in the class of seniors, and the only A+ average. She sat back in her seat, nose in a book called _Go Ask Alice_, reading to herself while the other students scrambled to finish a test she had turned in ten minutes ago. She could never say with absolute certainty, but she was fairly sure she had gotten an A—she always did. The bell rang, tinny and echoing, and the students groaned.

"Alright, pencils down, turn them in—that means you, Peter, don't think I don't see you back there," a short woman with long, wavy grey hair and broad bifocals shouted over the quiet roar of scraping chairs, fluttering papers, and zipping bags. The students filed up to the front desk, laying their papers face-down on the desk and giving the woman looks of despondence in varying degrees.

"Oh come on, it wasn't that bad," she said to the masses as they passed, chuckling to herself. Almost seeming to take joy from their pain and suffering. Temperance finished off the paragraph she had been reading, then stuck her bookmark—a torn-off piece of lined paper—between the pages, and placed the book into her well-worn backpack. The bottom of the backpack was lined with duct tape inside and out from years of use, hardly holding up to the weight of the several Advanced Placement textbooks she carried around daily. As she passed by the front desk, the grey-haired woman spoke.

"Temperance, hold up a second," she said. Temperance looked up, confused.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Malay, did I do something wrong?" Temperance asked. The woman shook her head, patting the edge of the desk as if to beckon her closer.

"No, no, you're fine," she said. "Well actually, that's what I wanted to ask you."

"Ask me what?" Temperance asked, still confused. If this woman didn't hurry up, Temperance was going to be late to AP Biology, which would tick her and her teacher off both.

"How you're holding up," Mrs. Malay said. "I know the past few weeks have been rough on you, adjusting to your new foster home and all. Though I have to say I'm glad to have you back at East Ridge—sometimes I think yours is the only brain in the room working." She chuckled to herself, and Temperance smiled.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Malay," she said. "Thank you."

"Okay," Mrs. Malay said, with the tone that knows there is much more to the story but does not pry for prying's sake. "Let me write you a late slip," she said, taking out a green pad of paper and filling in the appropriate places.

"Thank you," Temperance said, taking the slip. As she made her way towards the door, she heard Mrs. Malay's voice call out to her.

"If you ever need to talk about anything, Temperance, I'm here."

She pretended not to hear and kept walking, out of the classroom and down the hall towards the Bio lab.

Temperance scuttled into the classroom and closed the heavy wooden door quietly behind her, grabbing a pair of lab goggles from the box on the edge of Mr. Riley's desk and setting her late slip on his attendance folder. The class was congregated in the back of the lab, surrounding a table that Temperance knew was covered in dissection trays. The room was not filled with the rancorous stench of formaldehyde like it usually was on dissection days, though—instead, it reeked of dead fish.

Temperance dropped her bag on the floor next to her lab partner's belongings and merged into the crowd surrounding the table, hardly having to push past anyone to see—not that she would; it wasn't in her nature to be pushy. Almost as if a compensation for her shy demeanor, she was still several inches taller than most of her classmates, and would stay that way until college.

"Glad you could join us, Temperance," Mr. Riley said as he plopped a gooey dead squid, about a foot long including tentacles, onto a student's tray. He served them like Happy Meals, the students forming a rough line with their empty trays in hand. Temperance blushed.

"Sorry, Mrs. Malay wanted to speak to me," she explained. He smiled.

"It's fine, I knew if you were late on dissection day you'd have a good reason," he said. "Especially since today they're fresh, straight off the truck from the coast!" Temperance found her place in line and took her squid, returning to the lab table where her partner slouched on her stool, looking squeamish.

"Do you want to start, or should I?" Temperance asked, pulling on a pair of disposable latex gloves. The girl took one look at the squid and blanched, turning away.

"You can start, finish, whatever you want, I'm not touchin' that thing," she said. Temperance shrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said, taking the blade in hand and with the deft precision of someone with much more medical training, cut into the cephalopod's surprisingly tough mantle, starting at the funnel and slicing upward. She cut all the way up the body, spreading the mantle and eyeing the interior. The intestines were enclosed in the caecum, on top of which lay the ink sac. She carefully set at removing the ink sac, cutting it away from the intestines gently as to avoid puncturing either organ. She removed each of the squid's internal organs in turn, following the lab hand-out procedure to a T.

That was what Temperance liked about science—the procedure. No matter where you were, you could count on science to be procedural, to follow a set pattern and, in general, not deviate. Avogadro's number was the same in every language in the world, and during cell mitosis a cell would split the same way every time, regardless of your age, gender, race, or nationality. When you couldn't count on anything else, you could count on science. It was firm but fluid, strict but giving, constant and yet surprising. It was stability, and this squid proved it—every squid in the room had the same internal organs, the same beaks and gills and ink sacs, invariably. They had been that way for millennia and would stay that way for many more, no matter who moved where or who left who. A squid was a squid, was a squid. Forever.

Temperance completed the lab and then respectfully disposed of the creature's body parts, not feeling sympathetic towards the dead animal but recognizing that it was at one point a living thing and valuable as all living things are. She drew a detailed sketch of the creature's insides, copying that sketch into her partner's lab book while she quietly vomited into a trashcan in the back. The bell rang entirely too soon, signaling a release for lunch, and Temperance hung back while the other students flooded out of the room, adding extra details to the diagram in her composition notebook.

"Temperance, you can go to lunch, you know," Mr. Riley said, looking over her shoulder at her work. She cringed, still not entirely comfortable with men being in such close proximity, but forced herself to relax—this was Mr. Riley, her scientific guru. He was as dangerous as a waterfly.

"I know," she said. "I just want to finish this."

"Your diagrams are always so detailed," Mr. Riley commented. "I appreciate all the extra time you devote to accuracy."

"Thank you," she said. "I just think it's important to get all the facts right, is all."

"The mark of a scientific mind," Mr. Riley said. "You'd be surprised how many drawings I get of cephalopods with smiley faces on them! Adorable, but certainly not an empirical observation—a squid, with no lips or teeth, cannot smile."

"That's true," Temperance agreed, smiling herself. She closed the composition notebook and slipped it into her bag, depositing the lab goggles in the box on Mr. Riley's desk on her way out the door.

"Temperance," he called out as she crossed over the threshold of the door. She backtracked.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Really good work," he said. "It's good to have you back again. I hope to have you in my class for the remainder of the year."

"Me too," she said, nodding. He smiled and waved her off, and she left, sincerely hoping their shared wish would become a reality.

As she headed down the hall towards the cafeteria, she became aware of footsteps behind her. She looked back and saw a group of girls walking behind her, seeming to talk amongst themselves. She shrugged and continued walking, but soon began hearing peculiar sounds coming from their general direction. Coughs began to take the sound of words, and not kind ones.

"Geek," one girl hacked out, causing the others to giggle shrilly. Temperance ignored them, but her burning ears betrayed her emotions.

"Dweeb," the other coughed loudly, and very decipherably, causing the others to titter even more loudly. Temperance swallowed, keeping her chin up and determined to ignore them. They, unfortunately, made that very difficult.

"Freak," another one coughed again, hardly masking the insult behind the muffled noise. They snorted and Temperance spun around, facing them. She opened her mouth but no words came out—they stood and stared at each other in silence, before one girl from the group stepped forward.

"I didn't know you were back," the girl, who Temperance knew as Molly, said, her tone indecipherable. Temperance did not speak, or move, just followed her with her gaze.

"Where'd you go?" one girl asked, referring to the switch half-way through sophomore year that removed Temperance from East Ridge High and transplanted her to J.R. Daury High.

"She got a new home," Molly said, raising her eyebrows. "Isn't that right?" Temperance, unsure of what to say or do, nodded slowly.

"She did," Molly said. "She got another home, since the first one didn't want her. Isn't that right? They didn't want you?" Her tone was sickeningly sweet, dripping with nectar but still betraying the animosity of the words. Temperance bit her bottom lip, unable to respond. One of the worst aspects of bouncing around from school to school was the fact that everybody knew—

when the girl with hand-me-down clothes, a beat-up backpack, and no friends disappears from class, it wasn't a secret. Everyone knew why.

"She might not look like such a freak if she had some cute clothes… cute hair… cute face… I guess if she was just cute," one of the girls, Samantha, commented, grabbing a piece of Temperance's hair and flipping it up, letting it fall back into place and smirking.

"Freakazoid, cute? Get out!" Molly laughed derisively, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes. "She's only half-cute behind those stupid lab goggles, when you can't see the other half of her face!" The girls shrieked in laughter, allowing Temperance to wilt quietly.

If Temperance had known anything about the social behaviors of teenaged girls, she would have known that because she was quickly growing into the uncommonly pretty woman she was to become, they were lashing out at her out of pure jealousy, mingled with self-loathing. Their envy and own poor self-esteem compelled them to attack, as awful teenaged girls are wont to do, in pack formation against a perceived weaker individual. If Temperance had known that—and she would, one day, in her vast anthropological studies—she could have used that information to keep her head high, hold tight to her self-esteem, and walk away proud.

But she didn't know that. And their words stung, like salt rubbed into open lashes. It was true, her clothes were last year's fashion, and her belongings were often patched up, and she had yet to discover make-up or hair products and nobody ever saw much of her face for it being buried in a book most of the time… but she wasn't _ugly_, was she?

"I don't think she's ugly," the fourth girl in the group said, as if having heard Temperance's internal doubts. "After all, you can dress a _dog_ up in a sweater and it won't look half-bad!" Their shrieks turned into howls of laughter, reverberating up and down the hallway. Temperance began to back away slowly from the group, taking a few steps before turning and running. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor and she heard them calling after her, hooting and screeching with laughter.

Temperance rounded the corner and found the closest bathroom, locking herself into a stall and promptly exploding into hot tears. She bawled into her hands, occasionally pulling a wad of toilet paper off of the roll and blowing her nose into it. She leaned back against the wall, sliding down it and wrapping her arms around her knees, and peered through the crack in the stall door.

Naturally, nobody came looking for her—she wasn't missed. You had to have friends to miss you first.

* * *

**A/N:** Girls can just be really awful and cruel, can't they? :( I know I've been on the receiving end of some of that cruelty over the years, as has pretty much any girl you talk to. It makes us all stronger - in fiction and reality - but getting through it can be a real nightmare sometimes. So if you're ever on the short end of something like that, stay tough... it really does get better with time. Hey, even David Boreanaz was bullied as a kid, and look at where he is now. :)

By the way, _Go Ask Alice_ is a great book; if you haven't already, read it. Oh, and I don't own it... in case that wasn't already clear.

So... your thoughts! Love it? Hate it? Leave me a review and let me know! And hopefully the wait between this chapter and the next will be much shorter. :)


	12. Bring Me Down

**A/N:** I told you this chapter wouldn't take nearly as long to post! This one is set entirely in the past as an extension on the last chapter, to avoid any confusion (that is, October of 1992). The PoV switches back and forth, but hopefully it is fairly easy to distinguish between who is speaking, and when (in fact, I think I will go in and insert little breaks to make it even easier). I'm going to warn you - this chapter is sad. I was genuinely sad writing it, but I knew how it had to happen, whether I liked it or not. Again, sometimes your muse grabs you by the throat and pulls you in a certain direction, and you have to just go with it. With that... enjoy.

* * *

_ I see no changes  
Wake up in the morning, and I ask myself  
Is life worth living, should I blast myself?  
I'm tired of bein' poor and even worse, I'm black  
My stomach hurts, so I'm lookin' for a purse to snatch  
Cops give a damn about a negro  
Pull the trigger, kill a n--a, he's a hero  
Give the crack to the kids, who the hell cares?  
One less hungry mouth on the welfare  
First ship 'em dope and let 'em deal the brothers  
Give 'em guns, step back, watch 'em kill each other..._

_- Changes, Tupac (2Pac) Shakur_

* * *

Temperance remained in the bathroom for the rest of the day. Girls passed in and out, living in a world all their own, and Temperance only able to witness and wonder what it might feel like to be a part of it.

_"Tony asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with him but I don't know if I should, you know his rep…"_

_"… and then she was like, all in my face about it and I was just like, Mom, chill out, it's not what it looks like…"_

_"Do you have a tampon? I didn't think I was gonna start today but I did, and you know how that nurse looks at you if you ask for a tampon and not a pad…"_

_"This shade of lipgloss is too pink…"_

_"God, I'm such a lard-ass…"_

Everything they said, everything they did, passed over Temperance as if she were not even there. And really, she wasn't. She retreated farther and farther into herself, into the shell she had built around her, until she had hoped that she would simply cease to be. Maybe she could hide out in that stall for eternity, melt into the wall and just stop being. Or maybe not. When the end of the day bell sounded Temperance knew she had to collect herself and catch the bus before it left her—like everything else, the bus would keep going whether she was there or not.

oOo

On the other side of town, Kamaria Johnson was also catching the bus. This bus, though, was not a school bus—it was the Greyhound that would take her 45 minutes into Chicago's Southside. She paid the fare in quarters and dimes, backpack slung low on her shoulder, shoving her hands back into the pockets of her jacket as she took a seat near the middle of the bus. Not too close, not too far.

She watched as the houses outside of the bus windows changed, from clean suburban clap-board siding and deep, green lawns to shabbier, dirtier, smaller homes that bunched closer and closer together. The lawns began to disappear altogether, replaced by a patch of dirt and chained up bikes in front of duplex-sized homes squashed together like condos, only without the perks white people in condo associations get, like community pools and tennis courts and lounges.

The bus skated past these neighborhoods, not venturing down the small, beaten roads that turned into the urban jungle. She felt like Conrad's Marlow in _Heart of Darkness_, peering into the jungles of the Congo, not knowing what horrors awaited her. Yes, she read, and was well read at that, despite the prior notions of many of the foster families who had received her. She read classics, she read poetry, she read biographies and essays and really anything she could get her hands on. Just because she had never attended the same school for more than six months at a stretch didn't make her stupid; just because she was poor and black didn't mean she was ignorant. The world wouldn't see it, she knew, but it was what it was.

oOo

Temperance sat in the very front row of the large mustard-yellow bus, black letters peeling off of the side, holding her backpack tightly in her lap. She leaned back in the leather bench seat, without company, and watched as the bus stopped again and again, letting children free. Children who would walk the familiar path to their home, drop their things at the door, and in passing on their way to their rooms say hello to their mom. Or maybe they were latchkey kids and would let themselves into the house, shutting the door carefully behind them, waiting for mom and dad to get home.

She watched brothers and sisters keep up after one another, remembering the way Russ would keep up after her. She remembered the first day of school, when she was five and terrified and Russ was a cool, confident nine year old, striding into his fourth grade year like he owned it. When she had cried and begged her mother not to make her go, Russ took her by the hand and pulled her out the front door, encouraging her mother to "stop babying her"—using the exact same phrase her father had used.

He walked her up the steps of the bus and sat next to her, babbling incessantly like he always had when he was excited about something, while Temperance kept her lips buttoned shut, watching his animated face light up as he talked about recess and lunch tables and learning how to read and write and count—things Temperance already knew how to do, but would undoubtedly master now that she was a school-aged child.

When they got off at the elementary school, however, Russ went one way and when Temperance had tried to follow him, he turned her around and said, "No, your class is that way." She began to cry and he told her to stop, that she would be fine, and to go before she was late—he would be just a few halls away if she needed him. And just like that he thrust her out into the open world, with a hug and the assurance that he wouldn't be far.

And he wasn't—at the end of the day, she found him waiting outside of her classroom, waiting for her. He did every day that year, and the next, until he moved on to the junior high and left her to fend for herself. The first day of junior high had been less emotional, but with the same reassurance—I'll be just down the street if something happens. And in the beginning of her freshman year of high school, before everything went sour, when she heard that voice call out to her from outside an open window, she could smile and know. Know that he was right there, like he had always promised her he would be.

But where was he now?

oOo

When the Greyhound bus came to a stop at the station in the Southside, Kamaria and about half of the other riders got off, stretching their legs and readjusting their baggage. Kamaria wandered off in the direction of one of the neighborhoods they had just passed—an area that might be more aptly referred to as a _slum_, not a neighborhood. That's what the rich white people who stayed away from that area called it, anyway—the _slums_. To Kamaria, it was the 'hood—_hood born, hood bred, hoodlum girl 'til the day I'm dead._

It was the place she had lived with her mother and her mother's boyfriend, before he killed her mother, leaving Kamaria at six years old without a soul in the world. Her father had been gone, long gone—she wouldn't know him if he ran her over. It was the place her early childhood friends lived, the ones she still kept in touch with. It was where every year there was another girl pregnant, another brother lost to gang violence, another friend draggin' themselves through the gutter, looking for the next high.

In that way it was a bit like the foster care system itself—neither system worked for the ones suffering in it, whether it was the socioeconomic system that made the poor poorer and the mean meaner, or the foster care system that did nearly the same. Every year there was another pregnant, another hooked on drugs, another dead. So much loss and pain, and for what? She shook her head as she walked—there was no knowing. Only God knew.

She kicked at the slush on the side of the road with her high tops, feeling some of it seep through into her socks. Even the snow in the ghetto was dirtier—slush melted over the grimy sidewalk, turning into a sour tea-stained cold stew. Everything here was coated in a layer of dirt, of Poorness. You could see the Poorness everywhere; it was like those 3-D glasses with the one red lens and the one blue, that made everything pop out and change colors. Everything changed here; it looked Poorer, it smelled Poorer. The people talked Poor, their food tasted Poor like food stamps. You could hear it in their voices, tainted, drowning in all the Poor around them.

oOo

When the bus reached Temperance's stop, she pulled her backpack onto her shoulders and stepped out into the nippy late-afternoon air. Autumn was in full swing; slush in the gutters, leaves coating the lawns. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and kicked at piles of leaves on the side of the road as she traced the path back to her foster family's home.

The Robinsons were nice enough people; a man and a woman, married ten years but no children. She was thirty-five, he was forty—they had essentially given up on having children of their own, hence their foray into the foster system. They had set her up a room all her own, with a full set of bedroom furniture bought new from the store, and sheets they had let her pick out herself. Temperance had chosen a set that was light blue—she had never really been big on pink or that pastel lavender color most girls seemed to like, but blue resonated with her.

It had been a month since she moved in with them, and things had just begun to settle into a rhythmic pattern that both parties could sense. They established schedules, routines, and normalcy had begun to settle into the nooks and crannies of daily living. They had pizza every Friday night, and they liked to play Scrabble on Sundays. Scrabble Sundays. The cute alliteration had struck Temperance as a bit cheesy in the beginning, but now it was another mark of the home life she was acclimating herself to, and she didn't mind it at all.

When she approached the Robinson's home, she noted that John—her foster father—was home early from work. It struck her as unusual, because in the Robinson's highly routine lives, John never came home before five-thirty. It was not quite yet four.

oOo

It was nearly four o'clock, and the shadows of the light poles were already beginning to stretch out over the street. Kamaria hated that about fall, less light. Especially in these neighborhoods, a shorter day was often the enemy—the more daylight, the better. At least she was only a block away from Duane's house; if worst came to worst, she could crash there for the night, and head home in the morning. It wasn't something she necessarily wanted to do, or even thought would be a good idea, but it would be a hell of a lot better than prowling through the ghetto after dark. She was hoping, however, that they could get their business done quick and she could be back to the bus station within an hour.

Two pits on chains lunged at the wobbly chain-link fence as Kamaria approached, and she kicked slush at one of them, grumbling loudly.

"Stupid dog," she said, rattling the fence as she opened it, aggravating the animal further. The chain was short—Duane kept them that way during the day, but let them wander around the yard at night, to keep out the folks who should stay out. Nevertheless she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle when the dog launched towards her, jaws snapping in the air. These were not pets.

"Quit harassin' my dogs," she heard a voice shout from the house. She looked up and saw Duane standing on the front porch, tall and skinny and black as could be, shivering in a pair of plaid boxers and a hoodie. Kamaria was brown like clay, but Duane was _black_—black like coal, black like midnight. Kamaria waved him off.

"You harass them dogs enough on your own, don't need my help," she sassed, and he laughed, flashing his brilliantly white teeth. The only white thing she ever saw in this part of town.

"Get in here 'fore I freeze my ass off," he said, stepping back and letting her enter the dilapidated house.

"What ass? I don't see none," Kamaria joked, and he gave her a gentle shove as she walked past him.

"Girl, how you been?" he asked as she landed on the couch, setting her backpack on the floor and sifting through the detritus of empty beer cans and magazines for the television's remote.

"Where's the clicker?" she asked. He scowled.

"That ain't no answer," he said, and she smiled apologetically.

"Sorry. I been good, you know, same ol'," she said, still searching for the remote. Duane reached down into the side pocket of the recliner he was seated in, retrieving said remote and tossing it to Kamaria, who barely caught it.

"You don't come by enough," Duane said as Kamaria flipped stations, shaking the beer cans, trying to find one with something left in it. She shrugged.

"It's almost an hour to get out here," she defended. "And it costs me."

"Shit girl, I'll pay the bus if that's what's keepin' you," Duane said. She laughed.

"Like hell you would!" she said. He shook his head.

"You right, I pro'ly wouldn't," he said, and they both laughed. After a moment his face became more drawn.

"Times's hard," he said somberly. She nodded.

"Yeah it is," she said. He gave her a pointed look.

"I mean, _real_ hard," he said. She raised her eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked warily. He eyed her backpack.

"Don't make me say it," he said. She roused.

"If you got somethin' to say, boy, say it," she said, punctuating 'boy' with particular venom.

"Girl, don't start shit with me," he threatened. "I been treatin' you real good; givin' you a bigger cut than anyone else under me."

"Not that big," she scoffed.

"Wanna bet?" he said. She rolled her eyes. "You know I keep you good."

"Good enough," she said. "But not if you start takin' back."

"I got to," Duane said. "You said yo'self—times's hard."

"Got to nothin'!" Kamaria shouted across the table. "You think times's hard for you? You got a job, Duane! I ain't got no job, ain't got no way to get to a job if I had one! This _is_ my job, this is my money!"

"Hell no—that's _my_ money," Duane hollered, pointing a finger at her. "I'm the one with the shit, I'm the one who decides how much you get. Easy as that."

"Well what if I decide to quit sellin'?" Kamaria threatened. Duane waved her off.

"You don't think I got plenty of people willing to sell?" he asked.

"Not in my part of town, you don't," she said.

"Yeah well your part of town's givin' me enough shit as it is," Duane said. "You know that's Dio's turf, he already got enough beef with me for havin' you out there to start."

"Dio my ass, I ain't heard from him about it yet," Kamaria argued. Duane stood up, unable to control his anger.

"Because of ME! I'm the one who keeps him off your ass, don't you get it? You know how much shit I done to keep YOU safe out there? You 'member that night Slim came back with his face lookin' all inside out—you know why? Sent him out to talk to Dio's crew, pay them off, get you a free pass. Turns out they wanted less talkin', more ass-beatin', and it's your damn fault—and mine. My dumbass fault for tryin' to keep you safe."

oOo

Temperance let herself in through the open front door, and immediately heard the sound of Elizabeth—her foster mother—chattering excitedly on the phone in the kitchen. She couldn't make out the words, only the tone. She went into her bedroom and set her things on her bed, then wandered back towards the kitchen, only to be intercepted by John.

"Hey Temperance," he said cheerily. "How was your day?"

"It was okay," she said, trying to feign a happy demeanor, when all she wanted to do was implode. It seemed to work, because John did not take notice of her melancholy tone or swollen eyes.

"Good," he said distractedly. "Hey, let's sit down and talk about something for a minute, okay?" Temperance felt her insides ice over—she had heard that before. Usually followed by a, _We really care about you, but…_

"Temperance, I have some exciting news," John said, turning to face Temperance as they took seats next to each other on the couch in the living room. Temperance perked; she actually hadn't heard that one before.

"Yeah?" she said. John nodded.

"Elizabeth and I are going to have a baby!" John said, seeming to be swollen to bursting with happiness and pride. Temperance, however, felt the small balloon that had begun to fill within her burst. Exciting news for _them_, he had meant; not for her.

"Oh?" she said, trying not to let her voice betray her letdown. Again, he did not notice, but nodded fervently.

"Yes, the doctor says she is about three months along and doing very well," he explained. "We had pretty much given up on getting pregnant, this kind of came out of left field for us, but it's a blessing nonetheless."

"Yeah," Temperance agreed, nodding and smiling. "Definitely."

"So of course, with a baby coming in six months, we are going to have to make a lot of changes around here," John said, smile fading somewhat. "I spoke with your case worker from social services yesterday, about what to do." Temperance chilled even further, now reaching deep freeze level temperatures—calling The Prune was only a step removed from having to see him. And seeing him never meant anything good.

"What did he say?" she asked tentatively. John's smile finally abated.

"He said it would be best for you if… if you were removed from the home—our home—as soon as possible."

"What? Why?" Temperance asked, unable to control herself.

"I know, I know," John said. "I told him the baby isn't due until April, you could stay through the holidays at least, but he seems to think that the less time you have to get, you know, attached to the surroundings, the better it would be for you."

"But I like it here," Temperance blurted, betraying herself. She blushed, and John smiled sadly.

"We like having you here too, Temperance," he said, his voice truly expressing the sentiment. "It's like God has given us a mixed blessing here—we've wanted a baby for so long, but now we have you and to have to give you up… it's gut-wrenching, Temperance, it really is. I only wish the house had another bedroom. Elizabeth is really torn up about it too, you should have heard her earlier."

Temperance felt the ice in her chest thicken, the temperature now dropping to Arctic levels. Elizabeth sure sounded broken up, tittering excitedly on the phone. At least John could manage a sad look on his face, for her sake.

"Yeah," she said innocuously, trying not to hint at her feelings. "I get it." John put a hand on her shoulder.

"I knew you would understand, Temperance," he said. "And please, I want you to know—it's not up to us to have you leave so soon, we want you to say. But your case worker said—"

"Yeah, I get it," she cut off, stepping out from beneath his hand. "I do. I'll start packing." John nodded despondently.

"Okay," he said. "They're coming on Friday to pick you up. I'm so sorry."

oOo

Kamaria stared up at Duane, who was now breathing heavily with anger and the passion of the moment. She felt her emotions flaring as well.

"I never asked you to protect me," she shouted, standing up as well. "I can take care of myself, Duane!"

"No you can't, not with guys like Dio on every corner," he said. "And I took care of you and it cost me, and this is how you thank me!"

"Thank you? For what, cuttin' my share?"

"For makin' sure you got a share at all, 'stead of a bullet in the head!" Duane yelled, upending the coffee table with his foot and sending a wave of beer cans rolling across the floor.

"Fine," Kamaria yelled. "Gimme that guilt trip, go ahead, fine! You know, take your damn share of the stupid money, take half, take it all, I don't care! I'm done with this shit."

"You can't just walk out on me!" Duane said. "The way I took care of you? You owe me, girl!"

"I don't owe you shit," Kamaria spat. She unzipped her backpack and tossed a wad of cash on the table, and a quart-sized Ziploc bag filled a quarter of the way with marijuana.

"There," she said. "Take it. All of it, I don't give a shit. That's all I made, this week was slow. You can give the rest to whatever bitch you got lined up behind me." She stormed out of the living room, down the hall and towards the front door. She heard Duane's heavy steps coming after her.

"You ain't gonna just walk out on me, Kamaria," he said dangerously. "You can't, not after all I done for you."

"Well you don't have to worry no more," Kamaria shouted, spinning around to face him in the dim, narrow hallway. "I ain't yours to keep up after now, I'm through. Take the money, take the weed, I'm out."

"You can't just be _out_," Duane stressed. "It don't work like that."

"Yeah? Try me," Kamaria said, eyeing him with malice.

"You really gonna just walk out, after all these years?" Duane asked, his voice softening, as he leaned against the wall with one arm next to Kamaria's head, blocking her exit. "I took you in when you was fourteen years old, walkin' around all rag-tag with those stupid bucket-head friends of yours, skippin' school, running away from whatever shit foster family they had you in."

"You hardly took me in, Duane, you was still livin' with your momma," Kamaria said, remembering the gangly eighteen year old who had approached her on the street four years ago.

"But I did," he said. "I showed you how it worked, took a chance on you. When you screwed up, I had your back. When you ain't had noplace to go, I gave you a bed. I been here for you, all this time, and you just gonna walk out? You just gonna quit, just like that?" Kamaria looked down at the floor between them, then up into Duane's black eyes, that were so close to hers.

"Yeah, Duane," she said. "I am." She stepped under his arm and pushed the front door open, stepping onto the front porch. She turned and looked at Duane, who stood in the doorway with sad eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she was about to say was stolen in a second with the breath in her chest when a bullet ripped out of the barrel of a .9mm semiautomatic handgun, pointed out the window of a passing vehicle.

* * *

**A/N:** I am not sure how much longer this fic will be. It is already longer than I expected it to be, but it needs at least a few more chapters, since there are still things I feel should be touched upon before Brennan leaves the system, and some things in her present-day life that need to happen. So I hope you're willing to hang on for at least 3-4 more chapters... please? :)

I really do love reading what you think, good and bad and anything else you've got to throw at me, so please leave me a review and let me know what's on your mind!


	13. This Is My December

**A/N:** Alright, well I'm glad to know you guys are on the boat for a few more chapters! :) I know the last chapter was sad, and I usually try not to totally inundate you with more than one really depressing chapter at a time... but this one couldn't be helped. When I ended the last chapter, Kamaria wasn't actually _dead_, just hurt. Unfortunately, I had to finish the job, and it needed to happen sooner rather than later. So please, hang in there through all the gloom and doom... I promise there is a light at the end of the tunnel!

* * *

_And if you were with me tonight,  
I'd sing to you just one more time  
A song for a heart so big,  
God couldn't let it live_

_May angels lead you in  
Hear you me, my friends  
On sleepless roads the sleepless go  
May angels lead you in..._

_- May Angels Lead You In, Jimmy Eat World_

* * *

_October 16__th__, 1992_

Friday came swiftly for Temperance, who had spent the past two days slowly organizing her things, arranging them in painstaking stacks only to end up tossing them into a black garbage bag. Logically she knew there was no reason to take the time folding them, making sure the corners were pristine, all facing up, organized by color and function. Logically, no—there was no reason for it at all.

But realistically there was that part of her brain that had to take control, needed to seize control of the situation; to force it into a box and keep it confined. The obsessive compulsive nerve that, when stroked, reared its ugly head and pushed Temperance to fold, iron, stack, unfold, refold, restack, over and over until she was convinced it was perfect. She was never convinced.

That morning she did not go to school. She had wanted to, but they told her to stay—The Prune would be by around eleven to pick her up, to take her on a quick jaunt to social services, then back to the group home. Back to the holding pen. So she folded, stared at the wall, unfolded, ironed, folded, stacked, stared at the wall. Her eyes kept flicking back to the clock on the wall, seeking the time, deciding what class she should be in at that particular moment.

_It's eight thirty-seven, I should be in homeroom._

_It's nine twenty, I should be in AP American Government._

_It's ten forty-five, I should be taking a math quiz._

Finally it was eleven thirty, and Temperance heard the familiar sputtering engine of The Prune's Oldsmobile. She heard the car cut off in the driveway, heard his shiny shoes click-clack as he approached the door. He rang the doorbell, and she heard Elizabeth lift herself out of the recliner. John had said his goodbyes that morning and went to work, eyes bloodshot but on time. Some routines cannot be denied.

Temperance began tossing stacks of clothes haphazardly into a trash bag; watching hours of hard work unfold into wrinkled handfuls of fabric. Her belongings filled the bag nearly full, and it was heavy to carry into the living room. The Prune did not even remove his hat or coat—he simply stood in the doorway, waiting for her. When she came, he began walking out the door, holding it open for her. _Say goodbye quickly and leave_, his gestures suggested. She did. Elizabeth managed a few tears; Temperance did not.

She tossed her belongings into the back of the vehicle and took the shotgun seat, like usual. At this point she had done it enough times to be familiar with the actions—not comfortable, but familiar. There was a difference.

The Prune got in after exchanging a few words with Elizabeth, and Temperance did not look up as she waved goodbye. Instead she stared at her lap, feeling the car pull out of the driveway, roll down the street, then finally round the corner. When they pulled out into open traffic, The Prune spoke.

_Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah. _Temperance felt like she might be in an episode of Peanuts, for all she heard of his speech. She knew what he was saying, essentially—_I know this didn't work out, but the next one will be much better, just wait and see. Sometimes these things happen, and there's nothing we can do about it except for keep our chin up and move on._ Crappity-crap-crap. Et cetera.

Then she heard the word "hospital", and suddenly tuned in.

"Wait, what?" she said, and The Prune gave her an admonishing look for not paying attention, then repeated himself.

"I said, rather than making you wait at the office while I update your file—" _Update your file,_ Temperance had learned, meant adding another failed foster home to your record. "—I am going to go ahead and take you straight to the Chaplins, who are presently at Our Lord's Mercy Hospital."

"Why? What happened?" Temperance asked.

"Apparently there has been an accident with one of the children," The Prune said in a tight-lipped fashion, and would not elaborate. Temperance felt prickles travel up the back of her neck, and she rubbed her arms with her hands, expression troubled. They drove for the better part of an hour, finally arriving in the parking garage of the expansive hospital, located on the far side of the city.

_Who is it?_ Temperance troubled as she carried her bag of belongings with her through the garage, into the elevator, and down the halls of the hospital. _Was the baby sick? Did someone break their arm? Was it pneumonia? The flu? Mono?_ Her head reeled with the possibilities, until they reached the top floor of the hospital—the SICU.

"Surgical Intensive Care Unit," Temperance said under her breath, reading the sign over the double doors that remained firmly shut until the nurses buzzed them in.

The doors opened to reveal a Unit of white—white walls, white lights, white floor, white coats. The whiteness of the Unit struck her, and she stood in the doorway, oblivious to the mechanical buzzing that was intended to alert her to move out of the path of the shutting doors. The Prune grabbed the crook of her arm and walked her forward, and she snapped back into the present and pulled her arm gently out of his grasp.

"This way," he said, taking her straight down the hall, then to the right. The hallways were lined with doors—big doors, big enough to wheel a gurney through. Some doors were open, their contents shielded by (white) curtains. Others were closed, the inner going-ons revealed to the world by a monitor on the wall bearing the patient's name, respiratory rate, and pulse among other information. They kept walking, all the way to the back, to the very farthest room. The door was open, and at the sound of their footsteps, Janice peered around the corner of the open doorway. Her face dropped when she saw Temperance.

"Oh honey," she said maternally, pulling Temperance into a hug that she half-heartedly returned. Janice released the girl for the most part, holding Temperance's face in her hands and staring into her eyes, seeming to scan them for some kind of information. Temperance returned the gaze.

"What happened?" Temperance finally asked. "Who's hurt?"

"Come in," was Janice's reply, taking Temperance's bag of belongings out of her hand and gently ushering her into the room with a pudgy hand on the small of her back. Instead of being greeted by a gaggle of orphaned children as she had expected to be, she found the room empty, save for a bed shielded by a curtain.

"I had Arthur take the other children back to the house," Janice explained, as if reading the girl's mind. "They wanted to come visit, but having so many of them here was more of a hassle than help."

"What happened?" Temperance asked again, to be ignored again.

"We've been here since Wednesday, one of us always staying with her, just incase—"

"Who?" Temperance asked, voice straining. Janice bit her bottom lip, and lead Temperance around to the side of the bed, where there was a break in the continuity of the curtain. Temperance fingered the gap, then pulled the curtain back.

For a second, everything went black. Then the whiteness returned, except for a spot. A stubborn spot of black that would not remove itself from her vision no matter how many times she blinked, no matter how long she stared. A skinny little smudge of black wrapped up in white sheets, white bandages. She looked so small, lying against the pillows, IVs snaking out of her arms, a tube escaping from her mouth and connecting her to a machine that took long, wheezing breaths.

"Why are her eyes taped?" was the first thing that escaped from Temperance's mouth. Of all the thoughts racing through her mind, so rapidly that she could not even attempt to grasp any of them, this one verbalized itself, without her consent.

"They put her in a medically-induced coma," Janice explained kindly. "She lost a lot of blood, they had to revive her in the ambulance and they think—they're afraid she could have suffered some brain damage while she was without oxygen. They think it's safer this way; her brain can heal, and she won't fight the breathing tube."

"Oh," Temperance said, hovering near the edge of the bed and staring down at Kamaria's limp body. She certainly wasn't fighting anything at the moment. "But why do they tape her eyes shut?"

"To keep… to keep her eyes from getting dry," Janice explained gingerly, trying to find the most sensitive words to describe Kamaria's condition.

"I see," Temperance said delicately, tongue darting across her lips, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"You can sit down on the edge of the bed, honey," Janice said, and Temperance did, seating herself gingerly at the foot of the bed, careful to stay clear of Kamaria's feet. Her eyes traced Kamaria's body up and down, from the breathing tube trailing out of her mouth, parting her chapped lips, down to the bandages covering her chest and abdomen, down to her veins being pumped with antibiotics, fluids, nutrients, down to her motionless feet.

It was so peculiar to see Kamaria so still—normally she was always so wired, so energetic, that even when she was asleep Temperance could still hear her at night, tossing around under her sheets, mumbling to herself. When they sat on the couch and watched movies, even if the rest of her was still, Kamaria's toes would still be wiggling. She just couldn't sit still. Now she just couldn't move.

"How long?" Temperance asked.

"What?" Janice said. Temperance cleared her throat.

"How long does she have to stay like this?" Temperance asked. Janice forced a sad smile.

"They don't know, honey," she said. "As long as it takes. Maybe a few more days. Maybe a week. Maybe… who knows? As long as it takes."

_Then I'll sit here,_ Temperance thought to herself. _For as long as it takes._

And she did. When Janice left to get lunch from the hospital cafeteria, Temperance took the chair, pulling it up so that she could rest her elbows against the edge of Kamaria's bed and watch her chest rise and fall as the machine breathed for her, keeping her ears keen to the beeps of the monitors attached to Kamaria's body. Whenever they sped up, slowed down, or in some way sounded more urgent than before, she would jump up, eyes following the spikes and dips of her respirations, her pulse, trying to sense what was going on.

Sometimes a nurse would come in, change an IV, record her vitals, then leave again. They never seemed to acknowledge Temperance, as if she were one of the replica paintings on the wall, of flowers or the beach or egrets, rather than another living, breathing human being. Apparently if you weren't attached to a monitor, you were not worth noticing. Which was, in a way, fine with her—she did not want to be coddled, to be asked if she was 'okay'. She would be fine, as would Kamaria, and they would both walk out of the hospital fine.

Janice came back and suggested that Temperance go home, a suggestion she did not take kindly to. Though she did not respond harshly, her insides burned with anger—who was this woman to tell her that she needed to leave? Rationally, she knew Janice was only looking out for her best interest, but Temperance would have none of it. Finally Janice left to return to the house, acknowledging that Arthur could not cook and if she did not at least stop by the house to prepare a meal, everyone would starve. She left Temperance to her vigil, vowing to return later that evening to relieve her of her duties. Temperance did not say anything, and Janice finally gave up, leaving Temperance alone with Kamaria.

The afternoon faded into evening, and by ten Arthur had returned in Janice's place, with a Tupperware container filled with soup for Temperance. He set it on the rolling table next to Kamaria's bed, but Temperance did not touch it—she wasn't hungry. He asked again if Temperance wanted to go home, and she shook her head. Exhausted and unable or unwilling to fight with the girl, Arthur conceded to her wishes, and explained that he would be in the waiting room watching television, and to get him if anything happened. Temperance nodded and he left, understanding her need to be alone and unbothered a bit more than Janice had.

As the night progressed, Temperance felt herself nodding off, her head dipping and snapping back up. Occasionally she felt her forehead touch the mattress, and she had to force herself to sit up rigidly, as if against a wooden board—what if she fell asleep and something happened? What if the nurses forgot about Kamaria, her room being tucked into the far corner of the hall? Temperance needed to stay awake, and she would. Every few minutes she would get up and pace the length of the room, pinching her cheeks in an attempt to stay alert. She walked down the hall for a cup of water from the fountain, then quickly returned to Kamaria's side, eyeing her monitor carefully. No change.

Around six in the morning Arthur returned to Kamaria's room to check on Temperance, and found the girl asleep in her chair; her head rested on the edge of Kamaria's bed, and she held her hand. Kamaria's vitals were steady but none improved, and the doctor who had visited him in the waiting room an hour earlier had given him devastating news. He watched Temperance's expression as she slept, holding Kamaria's hand in her own—serene, perhaps finding refuge from the pain of reality for a few brief hours. She was protected, at least for the moment, by her ignorance. Arthur wished he had the same luxury, but did not.

"Temperance, wake up," Arthur said, gently shaking the girl's shoulder several hours later. She slowly opened her eyes, for a moment unaware of where she was, and wondering why her back hurt so much. She was suddenly slapped in the face with the memory of the previous day, and she shot up in her chair, eyes wide.

"Hey, it's okay, relax," Arthur said, gripping her shoulder. "You fell asleep."

"Is she okay?" Temperance asked, looking to Kamaria. "Nothing happened, right?"

"She's fine, no change," Arthur said, and Temperance's anxiety slightly abated. He felt cruel for giving her false hope, and for a moment contemplated not telling her what he had woken her up to tell her. He could have lied, told her that Kamaria's condition had plummeted in the night, and they had no choice. It would surely have been kinder than the truth.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. Temperance nodded, realizing that she had not eaten since the previous morning's breakfast. "Good, let's go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat."

"But what about—"

"Kamaria will be fine on her own for half an hour, Temperance, she's not going anywhere." Temperance eyed her friend for a moment, then seemed to succumb to the stabbing pains in her own abdomen, rising from her seat and following Arthur out the door.

They found a small table for two by the window in the cafeteria, overlooking the bustling cityscape below. Temperance picked at a croissant—despite the gnawing pains, she was not particularly appetized by any of the hospital's offerings. Arthur nursed a tall cup of black coffee. They sat in silence, each contemplating their own thoughts—Temperance curiously watching the going-ons in the street below, Arthur tormented by the task ahead of him.

"Temperance," he said suddenly, and she looked up at him. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his skin was pallid, from exhaustion or something else. His eyes themselves where bloodshot, rimmed with red, as if he had been up all night drinking, or sobbing. All of him looked beaten down as a flower left in the rain might.

"Yeah?" she asked after he paused, and he appeared to gather himself again.

"I have to talk to you about something; something the doctors told me last night," he said. "You are nearly a grown woman, and I think you deserve to know what's going on."

"Okay," Temperance said hesitantly, setting her croissant down on the napkin in front of her and folding her hands in her lap. "What is it?"

"Well," Arthur started, pausing yet again and swallowing loudly. Temperance mimicked the action subconsciously. "The doctor came in early this morning and told me that Kamaria had been on life support for sixty hours, officially." He stopped, as if this piece of information in itself was meaningful. To Temperance it wasn't, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Two and a half days," Arthur elaborated. Temperance nodded.

"I know," she said. "Since Wednesday, it's Saturday."

"Right," Arthur said. "That was at about five o'clock this morning. Sixty hours."

"Okay… what about it?" Temperance asked when Arthur felt his words catch in his throat, refusing to be released.

"Sixty hours is important, because… because it's only twelve hours away from seventy-two hours." Temperance was confused; she was quite good at math, why was he telling her this? What was so significant about it?

"And?" she said. He suddenly appeared frustrated, and she was unsure of whether it was with her or himself.

"Seventy-two hours is important because after seventy-two hours on life support, if a foster child's condition has not improved, the state will… the state will terminate life support." Temperance struggled to wrap her mind around the concept—something she rarely did. Terminate life support? Seventy-two hours?

"Wait…" she said, still grasping the idea. "You mean… if she doesn't wake up by five this afternoon…"

"They're going to pull the plug," Arthur said frankly, unable to sugar coat the situation any more than he already had. He watched the color drain from Temperance's face, her eyes narrowly focused on his, harsh—_Tell me you're lying,_ they seemed to demand. And he wanted to; he so desperately wanted to say that it was a lie, that it was a sick, twisted joke that social services was playing on all of them. But that wouldn't be true either.

Temperance did not speak, did not react in any visible way. She pulled another piece off of her croissant, brought it halfway to her mouth, then set it down.

"Temperance, I'm sorry," Arthur said. Temperance did not respond, and was in fact so rigidly unresponsive that Arthur briefly wondered if she had, in a state of shock, lapsed into catatonia. She looked up at him suddenly, as if snapping out of reverie, and spoke quietly.

"I want to go back now," she said.

"Home?" he asked.

"No," she said. "To Kamaria's room."

"Okay," Arthur said, standing up and leading Temperance back to the SICU. They walked slowly back to Kamaria's room, as if counting their steps. When they got there Temperance resumed her seat next to the bed, picking up the girl's hand and squeezing it gently.

"Maybe she will wake up," Temperance seemed to think aloud, though quietly. Arthur did not respond; he did not think she wanted him to.

Shortly after they returned to Kamaria's room, Janice showed up, face swollen and eyes still weepy. Her sister was watching the children at the house, she said, so she could come here and be with Kamaria. The three of them sat around her bed, and Janice seemed to watch Temperance more than she did Kamaria. This time, though, she did not ask if Temperance wanted to go home.

The minutes ticked by, then hours. The nurses came in on the hour, every hour—one, two, three, four o'clock came and went. As the hours passed Kamaria's vitals remained painfully stable—not a spike or a drop in either direction. She felt a sense of urgency begin to well up within her as the minute hand slowly worked its way around the face of the clock—four ten, four fifteen, four twenty. The red second hand seemed to speed around in endless circles, while the long minute hand took its time ambling around the edge. When a quarter 'til five came, a doctor entered the room. Arthur stood, and Temperance turned to face him in her seat, still holding fast to Kamaria's hand.

"It's nearly five o'clock," the doctor said.

"She still has fifteen minutes," Arthur stated.

"Yes," the doctor said carefully, eyeing the three of them. "She does."

He left, and the fifteen minutes went with him. Suddenly the shortest hand touched five, the long, rigid minute hand pointing straight up, and a nurse poked her head into the room. She sighed heavily as she took note of Kamaria's thready pulse and shallow, machine-induced breaths. She shook her head and refused to make eye contact with any of them as she left the room. After she left, the doctor rejoined them, this time with the clock on his side.

"It has been seventy-two hours since she—"

"Kamaria," Janice asserted. "She has a name."

"—since Kamaria was placed on life support," the doctor said carefully. "Kamaria's condition has shown no sign of improvement over the past seventy-two hours. State of Illinois child services protocol mandates that after seventy-two hours, if a foster child has not shown any significant improvement, life support must be withdrawn." He explained everything in a cold, flat tone, as if reading out of a textbook. "Because seventy-two hours have now passed with no sign of any sort of improvement—"

"You have to pull the plug," Arthur said angrily. The doctor nodded.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's protocol," he said.

"You aren't sorry," Arthur spat. Janice put a hand on his arm.

"Arthur, please," she wept.

"No, this is bullshit!" he growled, pulling away from Janice's touch. Temperance looked up at him; it was the first time she had ever heard him even raise his voice, much less curse. "She's doing fine on the life support, it's only been three days, and they're just ready to give up on her?"

"Sir, the state of Illinois says—"

"Forget the state of Illinois, this is a person we're talking about, a sixteen year old girl!" he shouted, rising to his feet and getting into the doctor's face. "And you're willing to just end it for her, just like that, because she's just another kid with nobody to fight for her. Well damnit, I'm fighting for her!"

"Sir, if you do not calm down I am going to have to have you removed from the building," the doctor said in a would-be calm voice, though an octave higher than before. Arthur's fists balled up, but he stepped back from the man. Temperance wondered briefly if he was going to take a swing at him, but he didn't.

"Thank you," the doctor said, standing rigidly. "In a minute, Kamaria's nurse will come in and withdraw her life support. There is still a chance that she will be able to breathe on her own, without the life support, but given the condition of her brain and the trauma her body has endured… it's not likely that she will live more than a few minutes." Janice began to weep loudly, and Temperance clung to Kamaria's limp, but warm, hand.

"Also, she should leave," the doctor said, pointing to Temperance. "This is not something she should see."

"She's not going anywhere if she doesn't want to," Arthur growled, eyes flashing. "You can drag her outta here over my dead body."

"That won't be necessary," the doctor sniffed. "There is no law stating that she cannot be present—I just thought that, for her sake, she shouldn't be present."

"She'll make her own choice about what's good for her," Arthur said, turning to Temperance. She leaned back in her chair, and he nodded.

"Good, it's settled," he said. The doctor did not argue further, and left. Shortly after he left, two nurses entered the room, and began the process of unhooking the machines that were keeping Kamaria alive.

The process was painfully slow to watch. They unhooked each machine wire by wire, then swiftly but gently removed the breathing tube from her throat. Afterwards, Kamaria looked almost normal again—as if she were simply sleeping, except for the tape on her eyelids. Temperance continued to hold Kamaria's hand, and Janice held the other, Arthur standing at the foot of the bed and watching. Kamaria struggled to breathe, still unconscious, and her pulse became erratic. Every few seconds one of the nurses would reach over Temperance and press her fingers against Kamaria's wrist, feeling for the weakening pulse.

After nearly thirty minutes off of life support, when the nurse searched Kamaria's wrist for a pulse, she could not find one. She pressed the end of the stethoscope against the girl's chest, and shook her head. She retrieved the doctor, who mimicked her actions, right down to the somber headshake. He stepped back from the bed and looked up to the clock.

"Time of death, five forty-three PM."

* * *

**A/N:** While this chapter was very sad, it was also very therapeutic for me to write. A little over a month ago, my friend was in a freak accident, and after a week on life support his family and doctors made the decision to let him die. He was not going to get better; even on the life support, his body continued to crash. The medicines the doctors had him on had reached the limits of their effectiveness, and it was just not enough. A lot of writing this chapter was revisiting that place for me, and while it is still incredibly painful to think about, the more I face it, the less it hurts. I try to focus on the positives in my life instead - the baby boy my older brother and his wife are expecting, my little sister getting her first car. And it helps, but nothing can take away the loss. So please, PLEASE take care of the people in your life... because life is so fleeting, so instant, and we don't recognize that until it's thrown in our faces.

On another note, the 72-hour time limit was completely fabricated by yours truly. I searched high and low for child services protocol regarding foster children on life support, but I could not find ANYTHING; not for any state, not even for any country. Either such protocols don't exist, or they are extremely well-hidden. Either way, I settled on 72 hours because life support is expensive, and foster children do not have health insurance - they are paid for by CPS, and CPS is not particularly well-funded by the government. I can't imagine that CPS would be able to pay for a child to remain on life support for an extended period of time... so I arbitrarily went with 72 hours. If you know for a fact that I am wrong, please tell me!

Anyway, enough of my post-chapter rambling. What are your opinions? Love it? Hate it? Really, really tired of reading depressing chapters? Let me know!


	14. Over the River and Through the Woods

**A/N:** Okay, I'm done with doom and gloom... at least for a few chapters, I think. :) I was really surprised by how many reviews I got from people sharing stories about the tragedies in their own lives... it just goes to show that we are all so much more connected than we know. I always hope when I write that I can not only tell a story, but perhaps let people look a little more deeply into their own lives. One of my favorite quotes is generally credited to Plato - "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." It is so true; no matter how a person appears on the outside, what you think their life has been like, you can never truly know the battles they are fighting within themselves. But in writing, in reading, in sharing our emotions and thoughts with each other in various mediums (stories, poetry, music, art), we not only defeat the demons within us, but we unconsciously give others the weapons and encouragement they need to fight their own.

With that said, this chapter is short, and mostly light. It is in all honesty a bridge to get from the last chapter to the upcoming chapter, which will be much longer and more interesting, I promise. :) But now that I am done belittling it (lol), enjoy!

* * *

_A voice said, Look me in the stars  
And tell me truly, men of earth,  
If all the soul-and-body scars  
Were not too much to pay for birth._

_- A Question, Robert Frost_

* * *

Brennan stared at the ceiling, parting her lips in a very stupid, forced grin—it was impossible to smile and cry at the same time. Another of many tricks she had learned through the years. Sweets had lain down his pen and paper nearly half-way through her tale, thoroughly engrossed on a very human, non-clinical level. When she finished, he bit his bottom lip, unsure of what to say or do. It was a very foreign concept for him—as a mental health specialist, he was trained and paid to know what to do, what to say. But he was at a loss—here sat a woman so strong, so stoic, but with enough unresolved pain to sink the Spanish armada.

"I don't know how you do it," Sweets finally said. Brennan shook her head, shutting her eyes and still smiling.

"Do what?" she asked in a cracked voice.

"Get up in the morning," Sweets said simply. "Roll out of bed, get dressed, go to work. Function. I meet so many people who cannot function on the most basic level in society, and yet you have gone through so much more—"

"What I may or may not have gone through is not an excuse to stop living," Brennan cut off, grinning until her cheeks ached. "You can't just stop."

"And still, so many people do," Sweets said. "They stop. You didn't." Brennan nodded, not trusting herself to open her mouth again for fear of letting out more than she particularly wanted to divulge about her present self. Sweets nodded as well, looking up to the clock.

"The hour is over," he stated. She sighed.

"It is," she said. He stood up and walked to the door, resting his hand on the knob and looking at Brennan from across the room.

"I'm not making you leave," he said. "You can leave when you feel ready." She nodded, pulling a tissue from the box and dabbing the corners of her eyes, which were moist despite her best intentions.

"I'm fine," she said, balling up the tissue and stuffing it into her pants pocket, readjusting her blouse with a faux-confidence.

"Okay," Sweets said, opening the door. "See you next time."

"Goodbye, Dr. Sweets," Brennan said, stopping in the doorway and standing face to face with the man, who was hardly a sliver taller than she. His eyes flicked back and forth across her face, his mouth resting in a kind, understanding smile.

"Until next time, Dr. Brennan," he said, dipping his head slightly.

She found Booth in the lobby, absorbed in an issue of Every Day with Rachael Ray. When he looked up he smiled, but the expression was quickly replaced with a concerned frown. He folded the magazine on the table, standing and taking two quick strides towards Brennan.

"Are you okay?" he asked, eyes full of tempest the way they often were when he sensed something wrong. "What did Sweets do to you?" Brennan shook her head, pasting on the painful smile.

"I'm fine," she said. Naturally, he didn't buy it.

"You're not," he said. She bit her lip, contorting her face into a peculiar mix of emotions.

"Booth," she said quietly, in a tone that both suggested and pleaded he drop the subject. He understood the cue perfectly, and nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go, then."

When they got into the car, Brennan leaned back into her seat, letting the smile fall. The past two weeks had been incredibly difficult for her—it was as if every emotion she had ever repressed, ever confined and compartmentalized and pushed away, had burst through the levies. Not only was she dealing with them all over again, but all at the same time; emotional overload. It left her feeling not only mentally abused, but physically drained—when she hit the bed at night she fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep that left her feeling just as tired the next morning. The only nights she felt in any way rested were the ones she spent with Booth. Something about his presence banished the depression, the anxiety, the fifteen years worth of compartmentalization exploding in her face.

It reminded her of when she was a little girl, maybe seven or eight, and she had a bad phase of night terrors that lasted for weeks. Every night the nightmares came—monsters, ghosts, men stealing her out of her bed under the cover of night. The fears of a child, unmarred by the knowledge of what _really_ goes bump in the night.

After three weeks of constant nightmares that left her tugging on Russ's sleeve at the dog's hour of the night, her mother came home one evening with a dream-catcher. It was a small metal hoop, strung with strings in an intricate, spider-web like pattern, with small, smooth round beads hung in the center. Three feathers dangled from the bottom, and it hung on a thin black chord.

"This," her mother had explained as she pounded a small nail into the wall, directly over the head of Temperance's bed, "is a dream-catcher."

"What does it do?" the small Temperance asked.

"Think about the name," her mother had said. "What do you think it does?" Temperance contemplated for a moment, then made the slightly surprised, brightened face she often made when coming to a realization.

"Catches dreams!" she said. Her mother laughed and nodded.

"Exactly," she said. "It catches dreams. But only bad ones—the good ones slip through."

"How does it know?" she asked. Her mother shrugged.

"It just does," she said. "The bad ones get tangled up in the strings and when the sun rises and the light touches them, they disappear."

"Forever?" Temperance asked. Her mother picked her up and nuzzled Temperance's small, befreckled nose with her own.

"Forever," she confirmed. And it did—for whatever reason, be it mystical power or the simple power of persuasive psychology, the night terrors ended.

In that way, Brennan thought as they drove the familiar route back to her apartment building, Booth was a dream-catcher. He weeded out the dark uglies, netted them safely away, and when the morning light came they were abolished. She smiled inwardly at the idea, and that inward smile slowly began to reflect in her features.

"That's better," Booth said, and she looked up to see that he was eyeing her from the driver's seat, his eyes shifting between the road and the passenger's seat.

"What?" she asked.

"You're smiling," he said. "Really smiling, not fake."

"Oh," she said.

"You haven't done much of that lately," Booth said. She nodded.

"I guess it's just…" she began, but stopped.

"Hard?" he offered. She nodded.

"Hard," she reiterated. "I haven't thought about it in so long."

"You know, I can tell Sweets to knock it off if you want," Booth said. Brennan frowned.

"What happened to you wanting me to express my emotions, to stop compartmentalizing and face the facts?" she asked. Booth scowled.

"I didn't realize it would hurt you so much," he said quietly. "I would have never brought it up to Sweets if I had known."

"I suppose I would've had to come to terms with it eventually," Brennan said, but Booth shook his head.

"On your own time, yeah," he said. "But I tried to force you before you were ready, to talk about it when you didn't want to. That wasn't my place."

"Who ever wants to talk about it, though?" Brennan asked. "It's not exactly table conversation."

"I suppose, but I feel like I forced you into talking to Sweets, and I'm really sorry for it."

"Don't be," she said.

"I am," he said.

"Well don't be," she demanded.

"You can't make me stop," he said playfully, eyes flashing.

"Fine, wallow in your guilt, see if I care," Brennan said dismissively, lips parting in a badly-concealed smile.

"Fine, I will," Booth said.

"Fine," Brennan said.

"Fine," Booth mimicked. She tilted her head slightly and looked down her nose at him, and he smiled wickedly. She rolled her eyes.

"Angela was right, you do look like a unicorn," Brennan said. Booth mocked offense.

"Ouch, that hurt," Booth said, holding his hand over his heart as if to stop the pain. "But if I'm a unicorn, that makes you a… she-corn."

"A _she-corn?_" Brennan asked. Booth nodded.

"You know, a girl unicorn. A she-corn."

"Booth, that's not what they're called," Brennan said.

"How do you know?" Booth asked. "What, did you read up the proper livestock term in the Farmer's Almanac or something?" Brennan opened her mouth to retort, but laughed instead; not a simpering titter, not a stifled giggle, but an all-out belly laugh, tossing her head back and letting the sound reverberate through the SUV. The sound was infectious, and Booth caught the disease. Any tension that had been in the car melted away, and they let the soothing relief of humor wash over them like a sunrise, pushing the darkness to the fringe and bringing in new light.

By the time they reached Brennan's apartment, the laughter had subsided, leaving each of them to giggle inwardly as the last remnants wore off. Booth put the vehicle in park, and leaned back into his seat, eyes on Brennan. She returned the gaze, and they smiled softly. She looked down at her lap, thumbing the scar on the mound of her left hand. Suddenly she knew what she needed to do.

"I need to go pack," she said suddenly, looking up at Booth. He scrunched his brows quizzically.

"Where are you going?" Booth asked.

"Illinois," Brennan said.

"For what?" he asked. She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking of how to put it.

"I need to put some things to rest," she said slowly. He nodded, seeming to understand.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I should be back by Monday or Tuesday," she said. "It won't take long, I don't think."

"Okay," Booth said, cracking his knuckles like he often did when his mind was working overtime. "If you're not back by Monday, I'll tell Cam you're off on business."

"Won't she wonder what business I'm on that she didn't send me on? She is my boss, after all," Brennan said. Booth smiled.

"Cam would be happy to hear you say that," Booth said. Brennan raised her eyebrows.

"Why?" she asked.

"She seems to think you don't see her as your boss, just more of a colleague," he said.

"What gave her that idea?" Brennan asked. Booth shrugged.

"I don't know, it doesn't matter. If I tell her it's personal business, she'll understand." Brennan smiled.

"Thanks, Booth," she said. He nodded and looked down at the seat.

"I guess I'll see you on Tuesday then?" he said, and she nodded.

"I guess so," she said. She put her hand on the door handle, then withdrew it, leaning across the divide between them and bequeathing a soft kiss on Booth's lips. He returned the favor, but not in the same wild, hungry way they had met the night previous; this time it was slow and comfortable, like walking through tall grass in the summertime.

"See you," she said, opening the door and stepping out.

"Bye," he said as he watched her go. She shut the door behind her, and he stayed parked as he followed her with his eyes. He never left without knowing she was safely inside her building; he never had, and he never would. Suddenly, nearly at the building's entrance, she turned around and approached his window. He unrolled it and leaned out the window on his arm.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Come with me," she said quickly. He raised his brows slowly.

"To Illinois?" he clarified. She nodded.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?" he asked. If she had personal issues she needed to get closure on, it didn't seem like the kind of vacation he should be butting into.

"Because," she said impatiently. "I want—" she stopped, sighing. "—I need you to be there with me. I can't do this alone. I never could." She watched as Booth's dark eyes flitted across her face, seeming to absorb her features. He smiled.

"Okay," he said.

"Yeah?" she said, seeming surprised. He poked his lip out and nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "You need me, I'm there. I'm your gun, remember?" She smiled.

"I don't need a gun," she said. "I just need you."

"Even better," he said. "When do we leave?"

"I'm going to try to get plane tickets for tonight or early Sunday morning," Brennan said. Booth let out a low whistle.

"Same-day tickets? That's got to be expensive," he said. She shrugged.

"I'm kind of—what's the term you use… loaded?" she said. "I can afford it."

"Well, okay then," Booth said. "I can be back with my bags in half an hour."

"Good," Brennan said. "I'll see you then."

"Okay," he said, putting the car into reverse and resting his foot on the brake.

"Okay," she said. She turned around, then turned back around, doing a complete 360.

"Hey, Booth?" she said. He looked up at her, cocking his head slightly.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Thanks," she said simply. He smiled, letting the car roll backwards.

"I'll be back," he said. She nodded and left, into the building and out of sight.

* * *

**A/N: **I warned you that it wouldn't be that interesting. xD But I needed a bridge to get me from what we just learned to what will happen in the next chapter(s?) and if I put the bridge and the going-ons of the next chapters in together, it would be obscenely long. So I figured it would be better to break it into chunks, rather than have it all in one sitting, you know? Hopefully I will post the next chapter tomorrow or the day after. At any rate, I do sincerely hope this chapter wasn't a waste of your time. x) So tell me what you think - good, bad, boring? Let me know!


	15. I Will Remember You

**A/N:** Wow, this is a long chapter. The longest chapter I have ever written for any fic, actually. I wanted to get it written and posted last night, but we had a heart attack scare in the family, so yesterday was centered around the hospital. Thankfully everyone is alright, and now home and safe! Thank God for small miracles. :)

Anyway, about the chapter... actually I'm not even going to talk about the chapter, I'm just going to let you read it and see for yourself why I'm so happy with it! Oh, and FYI, the quote in the beginning of the previous chapter is one that was shared with me by the father of my friend who passed recently... it amazes me that despite enduring the loss of his own son, he is still able to have such absolute faith in God, and life. Talk about a small miracle. Anyway, on with the story... enjoy.

* * *

_Tick tack toe, you're fitting into place  
And now the old ways don't seem true  
Stick stop blue, you're only shifting  
In the same old shape you always do  
Tip, top, ready for the sky  
And I'm tip, top, ready to go  
Tip, top, ready for the sky  
And I'm tip, top, ready to go, go, go  
Come, come, fly into my palm  
And collapse  
Oh, oh, suppose you'll never know..._

_- Cosy in the Rocket, Psapp_

* * *

Booth and Brennan sat next to each other in the cramped airport chairs by their terminal, awaiting their flight. They faced the broad glass windows, watching late-night planes, mostly landing, navigating their way across the massive stretch of asphalt. Rows of small lights illuminated their pathways, and small men in glowing orange vests directed them to the correct gates.

"I wish you would let me pay for my ticket," Booth groused, looking up from an issue of Better Homes and Gardens. Brennan, whose eyes looked glazed over as she vaguely watched the airplanes come and go, shook her head.

"I told you, it's not a big deal," she said.

"If it's not a big deal, let me pay," Booth argued. Brennan opened her mouth to speak, paused, then continued.

"Is it because I'm a woman?" she asked. Booth looked away.

"No," he said.

"Be honest," she demanded. "Is it because you feel uncomfortable allowing a woman to pay your way?" She pinned him down with her gaze.

"No!" he said. "It doesn't matter to me that you're a woman, I wouldn't let anyone pay four-hundred dollars for a plane ticket for me. That's too much."

"To you maybe," Brennan said. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Gee, thanks," Booth said. Brennan grimaced.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said. "But I asked you to come with me, I invited you—when you invite someone out to dinner, you pay. The same principle applies."

"I wanted to come," Booth stressed. "I don't want you to feel like you're dragging me along for the ride."

"I know that," Brennan said, turning her attention back to the planes. "But I'm not going to take your money."

"Fine," Booth said. "Fine. Be stubborn. But I'm paying for our meals—all of them—while we're there. And the hotel."

"I already paid for the room," Brennan said quietly. Booth tossed the magazine on the table next to his seat and crossed his arms.

"Fine!" he said, at a volume high enough to visibly disturb the few passengers sitting near them. Not long after a voice came on the intercom, announcing that flight 316 from Washington D.C. to Chicago, Illinois was now boarding first class.

"Please tell me you didn't buy first class tickets," Booth said. Brennan shook her head.

"They didn't have any left," she said. He grimaced.

"But you were thinking about it?" he said. She shrugged.

"It really is much better," she said. "Have you ever ridden first class?"

"Nope," he said, almost proudly.

"You should," she said. "Maybe I'll get us first class seats on the way home."

"No," Booth said loudly. Brennan shrugged again.

"Suit yourself," she said, rising and slinging her purse over her shoulder as their row of seats was called to board. Booth followed shortly behind her.

The inside of the plane cabin was quiet as they boarded, and remained that way—only half of the available seats ever filled up. After the plane finished boarding, a dreamy voice over the speakers welcomed them to the flight and directed their attention to a short, sweet-faced stewardess who demonstrated the proper use of their seatbelts, oxygen masks, and under-seat flotation devices, need be. Brennan generally ignored her, watching instead as luggage carriers crawled like sped-up caterpillars across the runway, loading into various planes. When their plane began to taxi across the runway Brennan fastened her seatbelt, and nudged Booth in the ribs, encouraging him to fasten his as well.

"It's stupid," Booth said, hooking the belt grudgingly. "If we go down, it's not like a seatbelt's going to help." Brennan rolled her eyes good-naturedly and leaned against the window, watching the plane prepare itself for take-off. Once they had taxied to the long, dark runway, they felt the engines rev, and Booth's face blanched.

"Are you okay?" Brennan asked as Booth bent over, hanging his head between his knees, face in his hands.

"I hate flying," he said through gritted teeth. Brennan pulled a barf bag out of the seat pocket in front of Booth and stuck it under his face. He grabbed it and continued to take deep nose-and-mouth breaths as the plane rapidly picked up speed, asphalt grinding beneath the wheels, then suddenly took to the air. Up, up, and away.

Once the plane leveled off, a soft ding sounded, and a gravely voice began speaking over the intercom.

"Welcome aboard flight three-sixteen everyone," the man said. "We're gonna have a good time tonight. We are currently cruising at about twenty-six thousand feet—" Booth groaned loudly, and Brennan put a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep her pitying smile to herself. "—and we got a beautiful clear sky, no cloud cover, so be sure to take a look at the cities down below as we pass 'em over. Now you can put your trays down and turn on your laptops. If all goes well—" Booth tensed. "—we should reach O'Hare International around eleven-thirty tonight. So kick back, relax, and thank you for flying Delta."

The intercom voice cut off, and the overhead lights dimmed, the path bisecting the rows of seats illuminated by dotted rows of lights on the floor. Booth finally leaned back into his seat, rubbing his face with his hands and letting out the occasional unhappy moan for the duration of the flight. Brennan leaned back into her own seat and let her flutter open and shut, lapsing in and out of sleep.

Suddenly she was being gently shaken awake, and she opened her eyes to find that their plane had landed safely at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport.

"We're here," Booth said as she opened her eyes. She yawned widely, stretching in her seat. She saw that Booth had stuffed the unopened barf bag back into the seat pocket, and smiled.

"I guess you didn't need that?" she asked, pointing to it. He shook his head.

"I'm okay once we get level, it's the taking off and landing I don't like," he explained, grabbing her purse out of the overhead compartment and trying not to hit his head on the ceiling as they filed out of the plane.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time they had found their luggage, signed off on the rental car, and navigated their way to the hotel. When they entered the room, Booth dropped his bags just inside of the door and beelined to the bed, where he promptly flopped onto the mattress. Brennan set her belongings at the foot of the bed and kicked off her shoes, digging her toothbrush and toothpaste out of her bag and shimmying out of her jeans as she walked into the bathroom. Booth joined her and they brushed their teeth together in front of the small sink, pushing each other out of the way as they peered into the rectangular mirror hung on the wall. Their faces were tired, exhausted from the length of the day. When Brennan walked out of the bathroom Booth found his eyes drawn to her butt, and he let out a bark-like laugh.

"What's so funny?" Brennan asked as she sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning her blouse.

"Your underwear," Booth said. Brennan smiled self-consciously.

"What about them?" she asked, looking down at the pink garment, dotted with cartoon slices of watermelons.

"They're just… I don't know," Booth said. "I always pictured you as a black lace kind of girl. Something classy, you know?"

"Always pictured, huh?" Brennan said, and suddenly Booth was the one feeling self-conscious. "Besides, I like them, they're cute."

"They are cute," Booth agreed. "If you're thirteen."

"Hey!" she said, picking up a pillow and throwing it one-handedly across the room. It fell short, and he picked it up as he walked towards the bed, having changed out of all but his boxers.

"It's not like you have room to talk, you know," Brennan said, motioning to said boxers, which were adorned with dollar signs. Booth shrugged.

"I like 'em, they're my lucky pair," he said, jumping onto the bed and causing the entire thing to buck.

"If you were really lucky, wouldn't they be off?" Brennan said nonchalantly as she set the alarm next to the bed. Booth perked, in more ways than one.

"Don't you mean, if _you_ were really lucky?" he growled playfully, grabbing her shoulder and turning her towards him, planting a kiss on her. She returned the gesture, and it deepened—he eased the open blouse off of her shoulders, and she pulled her arms out of the sleeves one at a time. He moved in closer, putting his hand on her back and pressing her into his body. She ran her fingers through his hair, then down his neck, his chest, his abs, his pelvis.

"No gophers this time," he said, pulling away for a moment.

"You're right," she said, tilting her head back slightly and looking into his eyes.

"Are you sure?" he said. Her brows fled upward.

"Are you?" she asked. He smiled.

"You're the first woman to ever ask me that," he said.

"I'm full of surprises," she said, leaning in and nipping his bottom lip between her teeth. He felt a quiver run up his spine, and he took her in his hands, laying her down in front of him. In that position, she looked vulnerable—in her lacy black bra and teenybopper panties, looking up at him expectantly; awaiting his next move. No gopher holes this time.

It began slowly; with deft hands he unhooked the back of the bra, letting it fall to the side of the bed. She slid her fingers under the elastic waist of the 'lucky boxers', sliding them around his pelvic girdles and down around his knees, letting him kick them off. He left a trail of kisses—that both tickled and burned—down to her naval, and past.

Then, as if a fire had been lit beneath them, the heat increased exponentially. Every touch, every sound, was fire and smoke; the walls were sweating, the bed moaned from the blaze. Every bridge was burned, every wall of stone became timber, alight and turned to ash. All things hard were melted; all things cold went up in vapor. Sweat beaded on their faces, dripped onto the sheets; it popped and hissed as it evaporated into nothing, disappearing into the inferno.

When they had burned all there was to burn, when every thing had been cleansed in flame, the air cleared and left them there, pooling in each other's touch, hearts drumming wildly and yet in sync. Brennan looked up at Booth, who met her gaze.

"I guess those were your lucky pair, weren't they?" she said. He smiled.

"I think they just got luckier," he said.

The next morning the alarm sounded at ten, and at first neither of them stirred. Booth finally roused—realizing that for the first time in almost a decade, he had not sprung to life at seven AM sharp—and reached over Brennan's undisturbed form, sprawled out under the sheets, hair covering her face, to silence the buzzing. He flopped over onto his back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

He shut them, and suddenly the alarm was sounding again, nine minutes later. This time Brennan lifted herself up onto her elbows, reaching over and slapping the top of the clock with probably more force than necessary. She rolled over onto her back, pushing the hair out of her face, and turned to Booth.

"God I hate those things," she said, and he laughed.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," he said, causing her to smile.

"Good morning," she said apologetically. Booth sat up and raised his arms over his head, turning slightly and letting his back crack—_pop, pop, pop._

"Eugh," Brennan said, making a face of mild disgust. "That's a horrible sound."

"Feels great, though," Booth said, picking his boxers up off the floor with his toes and putting them back on. "So what's first on the itinerary?" Brennan thought for a moment, lifting herself up against the headboard, pulling the sheets up around her.

"Well…" she said. "I thought I might like to see Janice and Arthur again, the parents at my group home. But I don't know where I would find them—I mean, it's been sixteen years… they've probably moved by now."

"Done and done," Booth said, hiking up a pair of jeans and fastening the button. "By the time you take a shower and get dressed, I will have a GPS coordinate for you." He pulled a shirt over his head and flashed his eyebrows at her, before picking up his badge and the room key from the bedside table.

"I'll be back," he said, leaning in and giving her a peck on the lips.

"Thanks," she said, and he waved her off as he walked out the door.

"Get ready!" he said as the door shut behind him. Brennan sighed; get ready was right. She hoisted herself out of bed and turned the knob of the shower, letting the cascade of hot water rinse her clean and wake her up. By the time she had dressed and was nearly through blow-drying her hair, Booth had returned with an address scrawled on the back of a hotel business card.

"Is this the same place?" he asked, holding the card underneath her nose. She turned off the blow-dryer and set it to the side, taking the card between her fingers and reading the address written in Booth's neat, blocky all-caps print. She looked up at him.

"Same place," she said. He gave her a careful look.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked. Brennan nodded resolutely.

"We came all this way, right?" she said. Booth nodded.

"We'll go whenever you're ready," he said.

"Okay, I'll be just another minute, let me finish drying my—"

"No, I mean, when you're _ready_," Booth said, stressing the final word. Her lips fell into an 'O' shape, and Booth flopped onto the unmade bed, grabbing the buttons and turning the TV on. Brennan took her time drying her hair, brushing her teeth, and counting tiles on the bathroom floor. Finally she came out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the floor, watching Booth flip through channels.

"I'm ready," she said aloud, voice wavering slightly. He looked up, and turned the TV off.

"Are you sure?" he said. She nodded, forcing a smile.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's go."

They climbed into the rental car and began the forty-five minute drive from downtown Chicago to Green Hill, the village outside of Bolingbrook where the Chaplin family resided. Booth entered the Chaplins address into the swanky GPS that had come with the rental—secretly glad Brennan had sprung for the luxury car, instead of the economy model the FBI usually granted him—and they rode in relative silence, spiked with the occasional, "Turn left here" sounded by the car.

After turning down a few roads that didn't exist and being reprimanded by the GPS, they found their way into an unnamed neighborhood. Brennan took in a sharp breath, and felt her hands and feet go cold; she was back.

The streets, the houses, they were all the same. Many were even the same color, sixteen years later, faded and overgrown with vines and bushes. The same numbers were painted on the curb, the same mailboxes waited patiently at the edges of the lawns. Different children rode their bikes down the streets, different illustrations were drawn in neon chalk on the driveways, but it was essentially the same.

"That one," Brennan said, pointing to a brick home on the left-hand side of the street. Booth parked the car on the curb, and they sat in the vehicle for a moment, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. Brennan eyed the house, watching it with the same wary curiosity one might a wild animal. As if she were waiting for it to pounce. Finally she undid her seatbelt and opened the door, stepping out onto the road. Booth mimed her actions, and together they approached the front door, which was just as worn and in need of a good shellacking as it ever had been, and perhaps more so.

Brennan reached her hand out to knock on the door, then withdrew it, turning around and sitting down on the raised edge of the front door step.

"I can't do it," she said. Booth sat down next to her.

"Yes you can," he said.

"No, I can't," she said, in a tone that was nearing hysteria. She picked her hand up, then ran it through her hair, shaking her head. Booth grabbed the hand and held it between his, stroking the top of her hand with his thumb.

"Yes, you can," he reiterated. Suddenly the door cracked open behind them, and they both turned to see a boy's small, dark face protruding out the door, staring at them.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely. Booth stood up, and Brennan followed suit.

"Is Janice Chaplin home?" Booth asked. The boy nodded.

"Hold on a sec," he said, disappearing momentarily. He returned after about ten seconds.

"She comin'," he said, a bit of the informal tone of his voice replacing the overt politeness from before. He closed the door, and Booth and Brennan stood outside, waiting. Brennan felt her stomach churn, and Booth still held fast to her hand.

Finally the doorknob turned, and the door opened wide, revealing a stout woman with short grey hair and an apron. Her face was round and warm, smudged with flour, and she rested one hand on her wide hip, the other on the doorknob. Her face was well lined around the eyes and mouth, sixteen years more so than the last time Brennan had laid eyes on it, but still very distinctively Janice.

"Is there something I can do for—" she began, but stopped short when her eyes fell on Brennan. They narrowed, as if in disbelieving scrutiny, then widened like saucers. Her mouth curled into a smile, and her eyes flashed back and forth, scanning Brennan's adult face.

"Oh my Lord," Janice said, her hand falling off of the doorknob. She brought them to her mouth, then flung herself at Brennan, enveloping her in a hug. Brennan was now a full head taller than the woman, but in her arms felt like a little girl again, and she returned the gesture. After a long embrace Janice stepped back, her hands on Brennan's shoulders, still drinking in her face.

"Temperance Brennan," Janice said, as if she had spoken the name just yesterday. "I never thought I would see you again. Please, come in!" She stepped back and let Booth and Brennan into the home, which was nearly the same with a few modifications. A new TV had replaced the old one, as had a new couch. The same old throw still hung over its back, though, and most of the pictures on the wall were the same, with many new additions.

"Please, sit down," Janice said, motioning towards the couch. Brennan and Booth both took a seat, and Janice grabbed the rocking chair from across the room, pulling it close to the couch. She sat back in it and folded her hands in her lap, smiling giddily. Brennan also found that she could not contain the grin that had befallen her own face.

"I can't believe I'm seeing you here," Janice said in awe. "It's been so long…"

"Sixteen years," Brennan said. Janice nodded.

"Sixteen years," she repeated. Janice looked over to Booth, as if she had suddenly noticed him, and pointed.

"And who's this? Your husband?" Janice asked. Brennan shook her head.

"No, this is my partner, Seeley Booth," she said.

"Oh, so that's what they're calling them now?" Janice asked, holding her hand out to Booth, who shook it. "Either way, it's nice to meet you, Seeley."

"Pleasure's mine," Booth said, beaming at the woman. Suddenly a cry sounded from the back room, and Janice hopped up, making her way down the hall. She returned with a baby, maybe a year old, who was howling inconsolably.

"Here, Temperance," she said, handing Brennan the baby, who quickly passed it off to Booth. Booth bounced the child in his lap, and soon the baby stopped squawking, perhaps more out of curiosity than comfort. Janice eyed the pair comically.

"I guess we know who has the maternal instincts—or paternal, I guess I should say," Janice said, and both Booth and Brennan smiled.

"So you're still fostering then, I take it?" Brennan asked, and Janice nodded.

"Still am, but just one or two at a time now," she said. "Ever since Arthur passed, it's just been too hard to keep track of ten or fifteen. I'm not as young as I used to be." Brennan's face fell; she had not known that Arthur had died.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Brennan said, and she was. "When did that happen?"

"About three years ago," Janice said. "Car accident. Buried him out in that old potter's field, right next to Kamaria." Brennan felt her stomach bottom out at the sound of the girl's name spoken aloud—it had been so long since she'd heard it, it sounded almost like a word out of a foreign language. Even when she had talked about her to Sweets, she consistently referred to her as, "my friend", never by name. Janice must have sensed the change within Brennan.

"I miss her too," Janice said, putting a hand on Brennan's knee. "That's why Arthur wanted to be buried out with her, instead of in the plots we had bought in the church cemetery. Said he wanted to be with her. I'm hoping they put me there too, when my time comes." Suddenly Janice hoisted herself out of her chair, and retreated down the hall and to the right—the room Brennan knew as her bedroom—and returned with an old photograph in hand.

"Here, look," Janice said, handing it to Brennan. Brennan looked down, and her breath caught in her chest; it was a photograph of her and Kamaria, on Kamaria's sixteenth birthday. It was July of 1992, only a few months before she died. They were both in their bathing suits, wrapped up in towels and sitting on a bench, both eating cake off of paper plates.

That was the tradition Janice and Arthur had started for the kids—whenever it was someone's birthday, they would take all of the kids to the park, or the public pool, and have cake and just enjoy the day together. It wasn't the same as celebrating with a family, but it was getting there. That week, both Kamaria and Temperance had happened to be with Janice, both waiting for a new family.

"Wow," Booth said, leaning in and looking at the picture. Brennan handed it to him, and he held it gingerly between his thumb and index finger, staring down at sixteen-year-old Brennan. She was tall and skinny, her long wet hair falling in waves around her freckled face. Her smile was conserved—as if she wasn't used to making the expression—but the black girl sitting next to her was laughing as the picture was taken. There was a glint in the girl's eyes, as if she had trouble on her mind, and Booth smiled as he thought back on the many times he had seen the same look in Parker's eyes.

"Bet you haven't seen many pictures of her like that, have you?" Janice asked with a smile, and Booth shook his head.

"No, I haven't," he said, handing the picture back to Brennan, who gazed at it for a moment more before offering it back to Janice. Janice shook her head.

"You keep it," she said. "It's yours." Brennan looked down at the picture, then back up at Janice, smiling.

"Thanks," she said, setting it in her lap. "Really."

"Of course," Janice said, turning to Booth. "Those two were like sisters, when they were together—like they had hive mind. If one of them thought something, the other one had the same thought, like they were having a conversation inside their heads that no one else could hear." Booth laughed; he knew how everyone else felt, since Brennan and her squints seemed to share the same hive mind, often leaving him clamoring for information.

"I never saw two foster children such good friends," Janice said wistfully. "Never had before them, and never have since."

"I think she was my only friend," Brennan said. Janice looked at her sadly, and nodded.

"I think you're right," she said. "I don't remember you ever being close to anyone else. You weren't even that close to Arthur and I—which I understood, most kids aren't that close to their foster families, not at the group homes anyway. But you were particularly detached, more than most kids." Booth listened to their exchange intently, wanting to grasp onto any knowledge about Brennan that he did not previously have. The photograph, Janice's words—they were all glimpses into the person Brennan once was, the person that made her the woman she grew into.

"But now look at you!" Janice said, former smile returning to her face, eyes bouncing from Brennan, to Booth, back to Brennan. "You know, I've seen your name everywhere, since you wrote those books. I have them all. Would you sign them?"

"Of course," Brennan said, flattered. Janice got up yet again, fleeing to her room and returning with an armful of books. She handed them to Brennan, who penned a short, personal message on the inside cover of each.

"I can't even tell you how proud I was when I saw your name on those books," Janice said. "I knew it was you, I didn't doubt it at all. I knew you'd do big things someday." Brennan looked up, feeling a lump rise in the back of her throat. She swallowed it back and smiled.

"That means a lot," she said. Janice shook her head.

"It's the truth," she said. "When you left for college, only seventeen—well the fact that you were going to college itself was a miracle, most of the kids I've known barely made it out of high school. But there you went, and I knew, I knew from the get-go that you'd be famous for something. You were such a smart girl."

"Some things never change," Booth said, nudging Brennan with his elbow. Janice beamed.

"I knew you'd do well. I just didn't know if I'd ever see you again—honestly, I had hoped I wouldn't." Brennan gave her an odd look, and Janice shook her head.

"I mean, I wanted to see you again—when you left, it was so bittersweet for Arthur and I to see you go, you know? I wanted to see you again, but I knew it would be better for you if you never came back. You needed to run, as far away from here as you could, and never come back. And you did, and now look at you." Brennan sighed and nodded.

"I did," she said. "But I always thought about you guys. You were always in the back of my mind." Janice took Brennan's hands in hers, and looked her in the eyes.

"And you in ours, sweetheart," she said. "We never, ever forgot about you. We wanted to write you at college, to send you letters all the time, but we felt like it would be better for you if we didn't. To let you go out into the world without the strings of the foster system attached. We tried to make it good for you here, but I know, we knew, it was never good enough. We didn't want that hanging over you… so we let go." Brennan felt her eyes prick with tears, and she tried to blink them back. Janice's eyes were freshly wet as well, and Brennan heard Booth sniff loudly behind her.

"I appreciate that," Brennan said. "I was alone, but at the same time… I don't know, I guess I felt free. Like I could be whoever I wanted to be, instead of the 'foster kid'." Janice nodded knowingly.

"That's all we ever wanted for you," Janice said. "To be free."

They spent the rest of the afternoon catching up, mostly Janice asking Brennan about her life since she left the system, and gawking at her myriad accomplishments. As they prepared to leave, Janice grabbed a camera off of the desk jammed in the corner of the living room.

"Before you go, I want a picture with you," Janice said, handing the camera to Booth. "Do you mind taking it?"

"Not at all," he said, turning it on and watching the LCD screen brighten. Janice put her arm around Brennan, who did the same, and Booth snapped several shots of the two of them. When he was satisfied that he had captured them perfectly, he handed the camera back to Janice, who thanked him.

"It was so nice seeing you again, Temperance," Janice said as they reached the doorway.

"You too," Brennan said. "Really, I can't even explain…"

"Don't worry about it, dear," Janice said. "I know."

"I'm so glad to see you're doing well, and so sorry to hear about Arthur," Brennan lamented. Janice nodded.

"And you, Temperance. To see you doing so well… it means the world to me. But next time, don't wait sixteen years to come see me! I know your life is wonderful and all, but come see an old lady again while she's still got some miles left on her!" They all laughed, and Booth opened the door, holding it for Temperance and Janice, who stood on the front step and watched them out to their car. They all hugged, and Janice let a few tears slip as she watched Brennan step into the rental car. For all the times she had seen that broken little girl step into her caseworker's Oldsmobile, whisked away to yet another unhappy home, she swelled with happiness to see her, a confident, successful, happy woman.

As Brennan stepped into the rental car, she thought about all the times she had left this house in the past—every time The Prune had shown up on the doorstep, in his thick, square bifocals, chattering obliviously as he dragged Temperance to another foster home destined to fail. Every time she had climbed into his car, carrying a plastic trash bag full of her belongings, her face pinched to hold back the tears. Every time she looked up to the window of that upstairs bedroom, as tiny faces pressed against the window watched the car roll away.

She looked up to the window, and saw the same small, dark face that had greeted them earlier, pressed against the glass pane. His dark eyes, even from a distance, watched as the car revved up, and began to travel down the street. She thought back to all the times she had seen those faces—all the faces of girls, boys, whites, blacks, Hispanics—all lost, all alone. She thought back to being one of those faces, watching one like her drive away; wondering if this was the last time she would see them, or if they would be back. Knowing they would be back.

She tore her eyes away from the house, and looked down at the picture in her hands. Her own hesitant smile, Kamaria in the midst of laughter. In her head she could hear the sound of it; loud, brazen, unapologetic. Kamaria didn't laugh like some people did, trying to hold it in behind her hand, afraid to be too loud, too happy. Her laughter exploded from her chest, and the sound resonated with Temperance, so much so that she found herself unable to keep from laughing too.

Brennan chuckled quietly under her breath, unable to hold it in.

* * *

**A/N: **They did it! They had sex! I honestly didn't expect or intend for them to have sex in this chapter... it just sort of happened (talk about the most commonly heard story in America, LOL). Again, that muse of mine getting her own ideas and forcing my hand, so to speak... she can be a real brute when she wants to be! Like I said before, I'm no smut writer, and I just generally avoid writing sex scenes... which is why most of it was more metaphoric than anything. But you get the idea. :)

And FYI, I totally made up Green Hill. Bolingbrook is a real village outside of Chicago, but Green Hill is not. And if it is, it's not the same fake place as the fake place I faked... it's a real place somewhere else entirely. And I can't think of anything else I need to say, except that there are at least 3 more chapters to this story. There are still some people we need to revisit while we're in Illinois (I won't say who, but it's been a long time coming), and I have been thinking a lot about how Brennan and Angela actually became friends... so there may be some explanation to that coming up in future chapters. Also, I have the ending all planned out in my head... it's sad when we come to the end, but ends come, right? You can't stop them... although no end is _really _an END, persay... and that is all that I am willing to say about that! :D

So how about your thoughts? Love it? Hate it? Ready to see some more folks from Brennan's past resurface? Let me know!


	16. Right Beneath My Skin

**A/N:** I wanted to get this chapter up and posted earlier, but I've actually been sleeping more these past few days, which means writing less (since I do most of my writing in the really awful hours of the morning when I should be sleeping, but can't). I wrote all of this in one sitting, between the hours of about 1:30 and 3:30 AM... so if there are any errors, please forgive, it has been a long night. :) With that said, I think you will enjoy this chapter... I definitely enjoyed writing it!

* * *

_Do you feel like a man, when you push her around?  
Do you feel better now, as she falls to the ground?  
Well I'll tell you my friend, some day this world's going to end  
As your lies crumble down, a new life she has found_

_Face down in the dirt,  
She said, this doesn't hurt  
She said, I've finally had enough..._

_- Face Down, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus_

* * *

Brennan sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room, fingering the old picture in her hands. She stroked Kamaria's face; touched the mouth, wide open in laughter; traced her bright, dark eyes with the tips of her pinkie; touched her hands, grasping a plastic cup and plate. Booth stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel back and forth over his hair.

"You about ready?" he asked. She looked up and nodded.

"Yeah, whenever you are," she said, setting the picture down on the bedside table. Booth smiled.

"You were a pretty little kid," he said.

"You sound surprised," Brennan said. He squeezed a large dollop of gel into his palm and shrugged as he worked the product through his hair.

"No, it's just that you always talk about how awkward girls are growing up, I just assumed you were talking about yourself," he said, smoothing the top and spiking up the front as he eyed his reflection in the mirror.

"I suppose in hindsight, I was not an unattractive girl," Brennan conceded. "But at the time, I felt very awkward."

"That's just being a teenager, Bones," Booth said, finally satisfied with his hair. "Everyone feels that way, some more than others."

"Yeah," Brennan agreed, stepping into her heels. "So where are we going?"

"Just a bar," Booth said as he grabbed the keys to the rental, slipping the room key into his pocket. "A friend of mine told me about it, said they have great food. Unless you want to go somewhere a little fancier?" he asked, but Brennan shook her head.

"No, that sounds fine," she said. "I don't want to have to get dressed up." Booth eyed her up and down, from the V-neck of her blouse that hinted at what lay beneath, to the jeans that hugged her lower curves.

"Dressed up or not, you got every woman in Chicago beat," he said, prompting a flush to creep up the sides of Brennan's face.

"Sheer flattery," she said, butting in front of him as they exited the room. He scoffed.

"Flattery? Now why would I do that?" he asked as they waited for the elevator.

"Maybe to achieve sexual conquest? What's the phrase… to get into my pants?" she asked, and Booth tutted.

"I already scaled that Everest, no flattery needed," he said. Brennan punched him playfully as they reached the lobby, and he rubbed the spot in mock pain.

The drive to the bar was neither short nor long, the dour voice of the GPS navigating them out of the vast, unsleeping bright eye of the city and into one of its suburbs. The traffic was not particularly heavy, but when they pulled into the parking lot of the sports bar, there was nary a parking space to be found. They drove in circles, Booth growing increasingly agitated, as they prowled for a spot.

"There's one," Brennan said, pointing to a narrow space. Booth drove past it, readjusting his grip on the wheel.

"You missed it," Brennan said.

"I saw it," Booth said, sounding irked.

"Why didn't you park in it?" Brennan asked. "Isn't that what we're doing, looking for a parking space?"

"The car won't fit," Booth said.

"Yes it would," Brennan argued. Booth scowled.

"No, it wouldn't," he said. "These luxury sedans are wider than they look."

"The space wasn't that narrow, it would have fit," Brennan said as they rounded the corner, heading down another row of filled spaces.

"I'm tellin' you, the car is wider than it looks," Booth explained testily. "It wasn't going to fit."

"I could make it fit," Brennan said under her breath. Booth hit the brakes, putting the car in park.

"You wanna drive, Rain Man? Here's your chance—park the damn car," he said loudly, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door. He looked at her expectantly, and she shrugged, switching seats with him. Brennan sped the car back around the parking lot to the narrow space, which was still empty, and deftly maneuvered the vehicle into the area. It fit snugly, but comfortably, between the two cars alongside it. Brennan smiled as she killed the ignition, and Booth sprouted storm clouds.

"Don't be crabby," Brennan said as she handed him the keys, grabbing her purse out of the back seat. "Some people have naturally better spatial skills than others."

"_Some people have naturally better spatial skills than others,_" Booth mocked under his breath as they approached the teeming sports bar, hearing the raucous crowd from outside the building.

The sports bar was packed to the gills with throngs of patrons, mostly men, gathered in booths and around the long, wrap-around bar counter in the center of the restaurant. A television was mounted in every corner, playing a variety of games, matches, races, and other competitive events. One large projector screen took up a significant portion of a back wall, playing a basketball game. Brennan watched, mesmerized as the players darted back and forth across the court, changing direction in a seemingly sudden and arbitrary fashion. It took her a second to realize who even had possession of the ball. She felt Booth's hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the bar. She hoisted herself up onto a bar stool, and continued to eye the various games as Booth ordered their drinks.

"You like basketball?" Booth asked some time later, after they had settled into a booth with their food. Brennan nursed her second margarita and focused her attention on Booth while cheerleaders shook what their momma gave them during the half-time show. She shrugged, chewing on the end of the straw.

"I've never really watched it before," she said. "I must admit, though, that I do find it somehow intriguing."

"It's a great sport," Booth said, struggling with his food. Brennan watched bemusedly as he attempted to grasp onto the small riblettes, the saucy pieces of meat slipping through his fingers and dropping down into the basket. Booth looked up and must have seen the amused expression on Brennan's face, dropping the ribs and grinning sheepishly.

"You know, these are hard to eat," he said, looking down at them. "They're kind of weird, too—it's like they aren't even ribs."

"You didn't order ribs," Brennan pointed out. "You ordered riblettes. They aren't ribs like you're used to, like baby back ribs."

"Oh," Booth said. "I guess they're not."

"Were you expecting them to be?" Brennan asked. Booth looked slightly shamed.

"I just… well, I thought riblettes just meant they came from a tiny pig," he muttered, giving up on the meat and turning his attention to the french fries instead. Brennan laughed—not derisively, but in a genuinely entertained fashion. Booth smiled sheepishly in return. Brennan 

sucked down the last of her margarita, running her finger along the edge of the glass and relishing the bite of salt against her tongue as she licked it off. Booth felt an involuntary shudder run down the length of his spine.

"Do you want another drink?" Brennan asked as she stood up. Booth stood also.

"No, let me get it," he said, but she shook her head.

"I've been sitting for too long," she insisted. "I'll be right back." Booth took his seat and watched Brennan as she walked towards the bar, disappearing into the crowd.

Brennan pushed her way through the crowd as politely as she could, trying to avoid stepping on any toes as she made her way towards the bar. She had already had two very strong margaritas, but they had no plans for the rest of the night, and she hadn't been satisfactorily drunk in quite a while. Even at last year's Christmas party—when Angela had probably consumed a fifth of vodka without anyone's help—Brennan had remained true to her name, tempering her alcohol consumption for fear of becoming too loose, too relaxed, too willing to divulge personal thoughts and attractions. But now, with that fear removed, she was ready to fill up Lake Tequila and let the emotional stress of the past few weeks hop on a boat and set sail.

Not paying adequate attention to where she was going, Brennan suddenly felt herself run into a very tall, solid individual. She stepped back, ready to apologize, but he beat her to it.

"Woah, hey, sorry 'bout that," he said loudly, with enough alcohol on his breath to explain his red face and easy temper. Temperance opened her mouth to speak, but when she focused on his face, she felt all prior thoughts suddenly flee her mind.

He was built tall, solid, like a brick wall. His hands were like shovel heads, two rows of peg-like yellowing teeth set in a deceptive, sloppy grin. The kind you would see on a crocodile, or an old big cat, dulled to nubs from years of stalking and preying upon the weak. His eyes, those deep-set, seedy eyes, moved slowly across her face. He was taking time to think about it, to remember. She didn't need the time; it was all instant for her. She could feel it on her face.

"Excuse me," she muttered, pushing her way past him, past the bar, towards the bathroom in the back. She ran into the nearest open stall and threw up—a cheeseburger, onion ring, and Jose Cuervo smoothie. She heaved repeatedly, expelling the contents of her stomach until there was only sick yellow bile left, and still her stomach heaved. Anything, everything it could purge, it would.

Finally she was able to quell her stomach's violent reaction, locking the stall door behind her and leaning against the wall. Her entire body trembled, suddenly aching as if she had run the entire distance from D.C. to Chicago, rather than flying. She felt cold sweat on her face and back, and her mouth salivated heavily, as if preparing for another bout of vomiting. She was right.

"Are you okay, honey?" she heard a voice ask sweetly.

"I'm fine," she croaked between heaves of bile.

"You know what they say," the woman said. "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila… floor." She laughed to herself, then left Brennan alone.

Her stomach continued to turn itself inside out as her mind reeled, unable to stop spinning and grasp any one concrete thought. It only played the same rapidly-spinning loop, over and over again: _himhimhimhimohgodohgodhimhimohgodhimhimgodgodohgodhimhimnotagainhimohgodnothimagain._

Chuck.

"Booth," she whispered into the phone, leaned against the stall wall, knees tucked up to her chest like she had so many times in high school, when she was just a scared, lonely girl. She felt like a scared, lonely girl again.

"What?" he asked loudly. "I can't hear you—where are you?"

"I'm… I'm in the bathroom," Brennan said, with a little more voice.

"The bathroom?" Booth asked. "What are you calling me for?"

"I can't come out," she said.

"Did you lock yourself in?" Booth asked. She laughed, then felt the hysteric, volatile emotion surface and strangle her.

"Just… come in here," she said.

"Into the women's bathroom?"

"Yes," she said. "Please." She hung up the phone, and within a minute she heard the door creak open hesitantly.

"Bones?" a familiar voice called out. She unlocked the door and cracked it open, peering out at him with one eye.

"Hey," he said, approaching the door. "What's wrong? What happened?" She opened the stall door the rest of the way and slowly walked into his arms, snaking hers around his midsection and pressing her face into his chest. At first she did not cry, just breathed him in and trembled wildly, like an animal cornered.

"Oh my God, what happened to you?" Booth asked, taking her shoulders in his hands and pulling her back slightly, so that he could look into her eyes. Then she began to cry. He turned the lock on the door into the bathroom and pulled her close, letting her sob into him, heart throbbing wildly, labored breathing reaching hyperventilation. At one point a patron tried to push the door open, then feeling it resist, banged against it with her fist.

"Maintenance!" Booth shouted, still holding Brennan close. She laughed a little, despite her wracked state, and he smoothed her hair against her head gently.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, after she had a better hold of her breathing. "What happened?"

Slowly, she pieced the story together, sixteen years later. She explained the truck ride, the dog, the little bits of gravel in the road—all the inconsequential pieces that, for some reason, stuck out in her mind. As Booth listened and processed, he grew increasingly rigid. The muscles in his arms tensed, and his hands flexed in and out of fists. His eyes remained dark, brooding, concerned as she explained the events that culminated in a slap across the face, ending the story on the side of the road, waiting for rescue.

"He hit you?" Booth asked. Brennan nodded.

"It was a long time ago," she said quietly. "But I just…"

"He hit you," he repeated, more coolly. She eyed him warily. In one swift motion, he turned and brought a fist down on a soap dispenser, ripping it cleanly from the wall. He picked it up and threw it forcefully against the opposite wall—it exploded into a dozen plastic pieces, the pouch of soap within splattering against the wall, dripping onto the floor. He punched the paper towel dispenser, cracking the plastic casing. It hit the ground, and he gutted the insides, throwing the roll of paper towels across the bathroom—like a banner, the loose end left a tail trailing behind the roll as it sailed through the air, landing near the broken soap dispenser.

Seeming to have gotten the initial rage out of his system—or out of things that could be easily broken—Booth turned his attention back to Brennan. She was backed up against the locked door, face blanched. He approached her and she recoiled, seeming to press herself even 

closer to the door. His face fell; the anger dissipated, and filling the void was a sense of overwhelming guilt. She was already terrified, and he had intensified that fear. Like an animal he had behaved on impulse, on rage. The very thing she needed least.

"Hey," he said quietly, holding his hands out, palms up, as one might approach a frightened stray. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_." He reached out and pulled her into his embrace, and he felt her ease considerably as he wrapped her up, holding her both tightly but gently. No fear, no force.

"I want to go," Brennan said. Booth nodded, still holding her.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

As they walked out of the bathroom, they were met by a long line of disgruntled women in the hallway. Booth kept Brennan close to his side and met their questioning gazes with a defiant glare, as if daring the women to question him.

When they reached their booth, Brennan grabbing her purse, Booth gazed out onto the crowd, eyes narrowed.

"Which one is he?" he asked as Brennan grabbed her things, ready to leave. She shook her head.

"It doesn't matter," she said in a pleading tone. "Let's just go."

"It does matter," Booth argued. Brennan grabbed his hand with a sense of urgency.

"Please," she said. He stared down at her, then nodded.

"Fine," he said. "Just let me go pay the tab, and we're outta here."

"Thank you," she said gratefully, taking a seat at their table and watching Booth approach the bar.

"Hey, I got a question for you," Booth said to the bartender, who rubbed a mug with a rag of questionable cleanliness. The bartender lifted his eyes.

"Yeah?" he said.

"I need to know which one of these guys is Chuck," Booth said. "Lives out in the middle of nowhere, drives a truck, kind of a mean bastard."

"Who's askin'?" the bartender questioned. Booth pushed his FBI badge across the table, flipping it open briefly before drawing it back into his pocket. The bartender's eyebrows disappeared up into his messy mop of hair, and he set the glass down, devoting to Booth the entirety of his attention.

"You see that guy in the red shirt?" the bartender said, tilting his head to the left. Booth looked over casually, and saw a man built like Frankenstein hunched drunkenly over a pool table, hardly able to hold the stick steady. "That's him."

"He drives a big truck?" Booth asked. The bartender shrugged.

"They all do," he said. "But you said you're lookin' for a mean bastard, and they don't come meaner than Chuck Dennison."

"Thanks. This is for the tab," Booth said, handing a twenty to the bartender. "And this—" Booth then slipped another twenty out of his pocket, sliding it across the countertop. "—is for my pal Chuck. Keep him happy, and don't let him leave." The bartender nodded wisely, tucking the extra bill into his pocket. Booth gave him a nod and left, gently grabbing the crook of Brennan's arm as they exited the bar.

"What was that about?" she asked. Booth shook his head.

"Just arguing about the tab," he said. "You know how sketchy bartenders can be."

When they returned to the hotel room, Booth brooded at the window while Brennan took a long, hot bath. When she emerged, she curled up under the comforter, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

"Tired?" Booth asked. She hmmed.

"Yeah," she said. "Worn out. I'm going to sleep."

"Okay," Booth said, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk." Brennan opened her eyes, peering up at him from the bed.

"You okay?" she asked. He nodded quickly.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just not tired. Don't wait up for me, I'll be back in a little while."

"Okay," she said. "Be careful."

"I will," he said, bestowing a kiss on her temple. "I'll be back soon."

He pushed the needle of the speedometer to ninety as he blasted through one lazy country red light after another, completely ignoring the car's artificial intelligence beseeching him to stop doubling the speed limit. The drive that had taken him and Brennan thirty minutes to complete earlier that night, he finished in just under fifteen. He pulled the car into the back of the bar's parking lot, which was now considerably emptier than before. He cut off the engine, turned off the car's lights, and leaned back in the seat. And waited.

Around two that morning, a tall, heavily built man lumbered out of the bar. He was just drunk enough to walk, and appeared to be unaware of where his truck was parked. Booth got out of the sedan, shutting the door quietly and striding across the parking lot with long, quick steps.

"Hey there, Chuck," he said as he approached Chuck, who looked up, startled. His eyes narrowed in the darkness.

"Do I know you?" Chuck asked.

"You're gonna wish you didn't," Booth growled, cocking his fist back and letting it fly. It collided with Chuck's jaw, splitting Booth's knuckles and sending the mammoth of a man stumbling backwards, hand flying up to his face.

"Holy shit, what the fuck was that for?" Chuck yowled. Booth let another fist land, taking advantage of the man's slow reflexes.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Booth huffed between punches. "When someone just—" he threw an undercut to the man's gut, causing him to double over "—comes at you out of nowhere." He grabbed the man's head and threw it down into his rising knee, splitting Chuck's nose and causing the man to drop to the ground. He then began to kick the man in the stomach, the chest, the groin, whatever of him he could reach with his foot. He kicked repeatedly, feeling flesh part beneath the wrath of his assault.

He stepped back, breathing heavily, and watched Chuck struggle to his feet. When the man had risen, Booth waited for Chuck to face him, like he knew he would—all drunk men fight in disturbingly predictable ways, he had learned from several years of experience—and suddenly envisioned Brennan's face. He saw the teenaged girl in the picture, smiling hesitantly; as if the concept of having something to smile about was absolutely foreign to her. He saw her eyes, so tormented and insecure, betraying the falsity of her happiness.

He saw the same look in her, the same uncertainty, the same façade, sixteen years later.

He let his fist fall for the last time, colliding with the jaw, disturbing the man's primal two-one-two-three dentition pattern as one of the three molars dislodged itself. The giant hit the ground, and did not rise. Booth bent over and listened—he was breathing, just knocked out.

His drive back to the hotel room was much slower, much calmer than the return drive to the bar. He cruised at a happy forty-five, appeasing the car's intelligence. It was nearly three when he pulled into the hotel parking lot, and Brennan was sound asleep when he crept back into their room.

It was not until he shut himself into the bathroom and turned on the overhead light that he realized the extent of his own injuries. The knuckles on both hands were split and bleeding, his right worse than his left. They were numb, his brain still spilling adrenaline into his system, but he could tell that he would be feeling it soon. He ran them under water as hot as he could stand, lathering them up with soap and rinsing them clean. He began to feel the sharp pains as he patted each hand dry in turn, exposed flesh pink and raw. He suspected, from the way it felt to flex his hands, that he may have sustained several stress fractures.

_They were worth it_, he thought to himself as he flicked off the light, feeling his way across the small room to his suitcase, exchanging the night's outfit for a pair of plaid PJ pants. He crawled into the bed next to Brennan, careful not to disturb her, and nestled his face into her hair as he curled up against the contours of her sleeping form. He felt her shift against him, bridging the gap between the two, and even in her sleep she reached for his hand. He returned the gesture, wincing from the pain as she slipped her fingers between his, pulling both of their hands up by her face. As she settled beneath his arm, he found himself smiling involuntarily.

_Well worth it._

* * *

**A/N: **I love Booth. Because I could really see him going apeshit and knocking some teeth out, you know? And I like guys like that; my ex was one of them, one of those guys who just beats guys up when he sees them treat a woman - any woman, not just me - badly. Chivalry isn't dead; to the contrary, it is alive and well.

Anyway. I didn't want to give much information about Chuck, other than that he is still kickin' (and being kicked). Because I had a guy like Chuck in my life growing up. And it was horrible, but it is over now and once it is over you do not want to go back to it. Brennan didn't WANT Booth to get involved; she didn't want him to dig all of that up again. She just wanted to get the hell out, and never see Chuck again. Period. The end. She didn't want closure or justice or anything like that... she just wanted to put as much distance between Chuck and herself as possible. Because sixteen years later, you just want to put the past in the past, and not get tangled up in the emotional wreckage of 'justice' and 'closure' and all the things that normal, adjusted people want for you. Sometimes you don't want justice or closure - just distance. That's all.

Now I'm running on fumes and coffee and rambling incoherently, so I'm going to stop. All I do anymore is work, study, drink coffee, and write at 3 in the morning. So now I am going to go crash for 4 hours, before I get up and start it all over again.

If you love, hate, question, identify with, or otherwise feel anything about any part of this chapter or story, please review and let me know! :)


	17. How to Love or to Let Love Go

**A/N:** As far as chapters for this fic go, this one is pretty short... just about half the size of some of the others. But I think that despite the shorter length it has a lot going on in it, a lot of important stuff, and it needed to stand alone rather than be combined with the chapter that will follow it. So here it is... enjoy. :)

* * *

_I don't mind where you come from  
As long as you come to me  
But I don't like illusions  
I can't see them clearly  
I don't care, no I wouldn't dare  
to fix the twist in you  
You've shown me eventually what you'll do_

_I don't mind, I don't care  
As long as you're here..._

_- All the Same, Sick Puppies_

* * *

When Booth awoke the next morning, Brennan had already crawled out of bed—and judging by the sound of running water in the bathroom, was in the shower. He pulled a t-shirt on, carefully trying to avoid putting any extra stress on his badly beaten hands. They had magically grown to twice their normal size overnight, and turned varying shades of blue and purple. The skin over his knuckles was split, though not badly enough to require stitches—maybe if he could avoid moving them too much, they would heal over on their own within a couple of days.

He moseyed down to the hotel lobby, where they were still serving continental breakfast, and grabbed two Styrofoam plates. One he loaded with everything they had to offer in the buffet style array—bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, three slices of French toast. He drizzled it all with a generous helping of maple-flavored syrup. The other plate he decorated with the goods from the opposite side of the breakfast table; fresh cut melon hunks, orange slices, an English muffin with jam, and half a bagel with a handful of cream cheese packets. Their plates, he noted as he carried them carefully back up to their room, were as varied and opposite as they were.

_Well, if that ain't poetic, I don't know what is, _Booth thought to himself as he balanced the two plates haphazardly and swiped the door key. He let the door swing shut behind him as he entered the room.

"Room service," he said loudly, poking his head into the bathroom. The steam was there, but she wasn't. He peered into their small kitchenette, but did not find her there either. She was not sitting on the bed, or curled up in a chair in the corner of the room with a book, like he might expect to find her. He did notice, however, that the TV was on—if she had left, she would have turned it off. Just as panic began to settle into the pit of his stomach, he heard footsteps. Gentle, rhythmic, patterned. Back and forth. He poked his head through the curtains that separated their room from the balcony outside, and eased—she stood near the ledge, in jeans and a button-up blouse, staring out at the wooded lot that edged onto the hotel's property.

"Hey," Booth said, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the humid morning. "I brought you breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Brennan said after a pause. She did not turn around.

_Crap._ Booth walked to her side, holding the plate out in front of her with one of his charmer smiles.

"But it's fruit, and English muffins; your favorite," he said, flashing his brows up and down. She looked down at the plate, then moved to take it. Instead she let it drop to the ground, food scattering across the floor. She touched the upstretched palm of his hand, then gently turned it over, revealing the damage on his fingers and knuckles.

"I told you to leave it alone," she said coldly.

_Crap. _Booth felt a flush creep up to his ears. His best bet, he decided after a few milliseconds of thought, was to play stupid.

"Why are you mad?" he asked. Brennan shot him a look of mild disgust, as if he had said something insulting.

"What do you mean, _why am I mad_? Seriously?" she said, unhanding his damaged phalanges and crossing her arms.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" he asked, his volume increasing. "Let me try saying it more clearly—what did I do to upset you?"

"Don't play stupid, Booth," she spat.

_Crap. That didn't work._ Before he could open his mouth and let the asinine banter continue, Brennan brushed past him and reentered their room, grabbing the remote and tapping the mute button. Booth entered after her, and they stood on opposite sides of the bed, both watching the TV as they were informed that fifteen minutes could save them fifteen percent or more on car insurance.

"What are you—"

"Wait for it," Brennan cut off. He did. Soon the local news channel resumed. They listened to headlines about the flailing economy, the local election, among other things. Just as Booth was really beginning to wonder what he was waiting for, the anchor turned to the less-important headlines.

"—and in other news, a man identified as Chuck Dennison was found in the parking lot of a local restaurant this morning in critical condition after an apparent assault. His condition is stable, though officials say the man can provide no details about the previous night's encounter." Brennan hit the mute button again, tossing the remote onto the bed. She gave Booth an angry, pointed look.

"Are you still going to tell me you have _no_ idea why I'm upset?" she asked. Booth crossed his arms.

"I have no idea why you're upset," he said stubbornly.

"Because, I told you to leave it alone!" Brennan said loudly. "But you had to go play the hero, your desire for alpha-male dominance superceded any other rational thought that might have attempted to pass through your brain—"

"I wasn't being _alpha-male_," Booth growled. "I was just giving the guy what he had comin' to him!"

"He didn't do anything to you!" Brennan shouted.

"But he did to you," Booth shouted back, veritably roaring.

"And that's none of your concern," Brennan responded sharply. Booth's jaw dropped.

"How can you say that? Of course it is!" he said. "If it concerns you, it concerns me, okay?"

"No, not okay!" Brennan said, frazzling. "It's my life, it's my business, and what I do or don't do about it is not for you to decide!"

"You can't just let a guy like that walk," Booth said, voice exasperated. "You can't just let him get away with it!"

"Yes I can," Brennan said. "I can, and it's quite easy, Booth. You just walk away, you put as much distance between you as possible, and you don't look back."

"But after what he did—"

"_Did_, Booth! It's in the past! Who cares now?" she asked, throwing her hands up.

"I care!" Booth shouted, pointing his thumbs at his chest.

"Well I wish you wouldn't," Brennan said hotly, sitting on the edge of the bed and turning her back to him.

"Why not?" Booth yelled at her back. "Why does it bother you so damn much for somebody to just care about you, to just want the best for you?"

"You didn't want the best for me, Booth," she argued. "If you had, you would have just paid the tab and walked away. You acted on an urge—your urge. It had nothing to do with me."

"It had everything to do with you!" he yelled. "Do you think I would've just gone up and beat the tar out of some random guy? It had _everything_ to do with you!"

"So now it's my fault that you beat up a total stranger?" Brennan asked.

"No!" he said, putting his hands on top of his head and lacing his fingers together, taking a deep breath. "I'm just saying that I did what I did because of you, Bones. Because I care about you, and just thinking about that animal touching you, hurting you… it made me nuts."

"Well I don't care how 'nuts' it made you, Booth. What you did was wrong, it was selfish, and just the fact that you want to try and pass it off as some heroic act…"

"How was it selfish of me, to give a good late ass-kicking to the guy who knocked you around when you were a kid?" he asked loudly. "How is that selfish?"

"Because I asked you not to," Brennan said. "I asked you not to and you did it anyway, because it's what _you_ wanted to do! You weren't thinking of me, you were thinking of you, and how YOU felt. Not me. You."

"I only felt that way because I care about you," Booth said, feeling the control return to his voice. "I care about you and when I see the guy who put his hands on my—"

"_Your_? Your what? Your piece of property? Your little woman, who can't take care of herself or make her own decisions?" At this point Brennan was on her feet again, red-faced, her voice an octave higher than usual. "I'm not just a trophy, Booth. I'm not something you can win, something you can own and lay claim to. You can't just ignore who I am and what I need, by doing whatever you want and justifying it by saying, you're protecting what's _yours._ I'm not yours, Booth. I never was, and I never will be."

When she finished, she let her hands fall to her hips, nostrils flaring. They both breathed heavily, as if they had just completed a long run. He set his jaw, staring her in the eyes, and then diverting his gaze to the ceiling. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and swallowed. She bit her bottom lip. He rubbed his face hard with the heels of his palms, then looked back at her again.

"I always considered you mine," he said quietly. She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a finger, and she refrained. He cleared his throat and continued.

"I always considered you mine, Bones," he said. "From the first day I met you, you were mine. You were my pain in the ass first. We fought and butted heads and I didn't really like you. You were hot, but I didn't like you. So you were my ass pain." He paused and she raised her brows slightly, waiting. He went on.

"And then we started working together more. We started to see things different ways, and at first I felt like you thought I was just a big idiot. But then I figured out that you didn't. And then I realized that you weren't just a rude, awkward, super-genius hot scientist… there was more to you, more underneath that you just didn't want to share. But sometimes you did. And then you were my co-worker. And you were still mine.

"The more cases we worked together, the more we got to know each other. I learned about your parents; you learned about my past in the military. We tracked down murderers; hell, we were almost victims. That kind of thing, it brings you a lot closer to a person. It got to where we could tell what the other was thinking, without really having to say it. Where we instantly had each other's back, no matter what. Where I knew, if something bad happened, I'd sooner die than let you down. You became a partner… and you were mine.

"Then as the cases and years go by, that partnership becomes something more. Suddenly you weren't just the person I had dinner with after a case, to celebrate a job well done; you were the person whose door I showed up at with Chinese food in the middle of the night. You were the person I could go to if I was having problems with Rebecca, I was the person you could cry on, you know? Then I started to get that fear—when we went into a situation, it wasn't just my partner's back I was covering, it was my friend's. Somehow, between all the dead bodies and murderers and late nights, you became my best friend, Bones. My confidant. And you were mine, more than you ever were before.

"And then there were these moments, when I thought there was a spark but I couldn't tell and I didn't want to ruin this amazing relationship I have with you, as a partner and a friend. Then there was Wal-mart and gopher holes and hotel rooms and just… it all happened really fast, how we suddenly went from being friends to… to what? I don't even know. But I still know you're mine. Whatever you are, you're mine, Temperance. You always have been, and you always will be."

When he finished his monologue, he sat down on the foot of the bed, staring at the muted television. Brennan crossed her arms in front of her and stared down at the crumpled floral bedspread, feeling her eyes prick with tears. She sighed and blinked hard, trying to banish them.

"I'm not," she said quietly, hardly above a whisper, so that his ears strained to catch the words. "I'm not yours, Booth. I'm not anyone's. I don't belong _to_ anyone, I don't belong _with_ anyone. I'm not anyone's, Booth. Least of all yours."

She grabbed the keys off the top of the dresser as she walked towards the door, fighting to breathe despite the massive lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Booth let his head fall into his hands as he struggled to focus on the fibers in the carpet, his entire world turning blurry.

The door made very little noise as it shut behind her.

* * *

**A/N: **You know, nothing is ever easy! Even the best things in life, the very best things that we've waited for and dreamed for and think are going to be perfect... they're never easy. And they shouldn't be. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, right? You can imagine where Booth and Brennan are - they changed their 'status' basically overnight, whatever that status may be, and Brennan is horrible at change to begin with... especially when it comes to people actually giving a crap about her. She doesn't know how to react, and neither does Booth, because everything he knows how to do - the chivalry, the macho, alpha-male, dominant thing - it isn't working for him. And he really doesn't want to screw up, but he feels like he's failing and he's going to lose everything just like that.

So in short, they're both very stressed. Relationships are stressful. Life is stressful. Fake lives are stressful, and real lives are stressful. I've been living on Snickers and coffee for the past week, with some Jimmy John's thrown in for variety's sake. I've been working double shifts and taking exams and watching some relationships fall apart while hoping that others come together... it's life. Life is hard, and loving is easy... it's when the two of them collide that things get sticky.

Now that I'm done boring you with my ramblings about life and love... what are your thoughts on the chapter? Love it? Hate it? See it coming from a mile away? Leave a review and let me know! :)


	18. Drive Time

**A/N:** You are all gluttons for angst, do you know that? Really, you are. xD That's not a bad thing though! It's just ironic how we seem to flock to it in fiction... I suppose it's because, unlike in reality, we know with fair certainty that all will turn out right in the end. And that's good. We need happy endings, we need to live a story where things go from bad to worse, then miraculously the storm clears, the sun shines, and everyone kisses and makes up and lives happily ever after. I don't think we just _want_ happily ever after - I think part of us needs it. We need at least the hope that everything can and will turn out okay, that tomorrow might be the best day of your life if you can just get there... because sometimes we go for so long without that in our own lives, that we forget it's real. And it IS real, it's there, I promise; you just have to make it that far.

As far as the chapter goes, I think this might be the last flashback chapter... or there might be one more. Actually, I think I just lied - I am pretty sure there will be one more. Anyway... enjoy.

* * *

_It just takes some time,  
Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride,  
Everything, everything will be just fine,  
Everything, everything will be alright, alright..._

_- The Middle, Jimmy Eat World_

* * *

Booth sat for a minute after the door shut behind her, watching the world swim, then resurface. He stood slowly, as if the weight of the years had worn him down. He crossed the room and swiftly brought his foot into contact with the bureau. The entire piece of furniture rattled, and thumped against the wall as he kicked it repeatedly. He really wanted to punch something, but given the state of his hands, he settled for repeated kicking instead. Finally the wood splintered and caved, and, feeling the stress release that comes with breaking something large and solid, Booth stopped his assault. He turned around and sat back down on the bed, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirred in silent circles, around and around. Here we go again.

Brennan got half-way down the hall before she stopped. She rocked on her heels, biting the inside of her cheek. She had gone fifteen steps, maybe twenty. It would be so easy to turn around and go back, to say she was sorry and fall into his arms and let him hold her like he had gotten so good at doing.

_But I'm not sorry_, she thought to herself. And she kept walking.

Booth looked over to the table beside the bed and saw the picture of Brennan and Kamaria from their teenage years. He reached over, stretching the length of his arm, and grabbed it between two fingers. He held it close to his face, examining it the way Brennan often examined evidence. That lost look of hers, that looking look she had. Still had. She was always searching, always looking. For a truth, or the lie it hid behind. For something she could hide behind. How could he think that he could just undo all of those years? That he could sweep her up and kiss it gone? He set the picture on the pillow next to him where her head had laid the light before, and sighed heavily, his chest gently swelling and deflating.

Brennan took the car to the interstate, merging into traffic and listening to only the road noise. She felt much of her tension melt away as the miles ticked by—she and Angela had once talked about the therapeutic qualities of driving on an open, low-traffic road. Angela had called it 'drive time', something she did when she was upset with Hodgins or just needed to think. Brennan suddenly understood the concept very well; the dull hum of the tires against the asphalt, the blurry scenery passing in her peripheral vision, the quivering needles on the dash. Everything seemed to be somehow suspended, halted; like the world had stopped, or she was simply moving faster than everything else, so that it appeared to be still. Waiting for her to come back. In this place—this suspended moment—she could outrun everything.

_August 16__th__, 1993_

Temperance groaned as she lugged the two heavy duffle bags up the stairs, swaying from the slightly unbalanced load. They were second-hand, gifts from Arthur and Janice—so she would have something to carry her things in, they said. What they meant was, so she wouldn't have to go to college looking like a foster kid, with everything thrown into garbage bags. She stopped to rest on the third floor landing, wiping away the sweat from her brow ridge and looking around the stairwell, feeling a smile creep onto her face. Even she was still shocked that it had all come together this way.

After her transfer half-way through junior year, Temperance began seriously contemplating an accelerated path out of high school. There was no way she could take another year of torment, ridicule, shame. Enough was enough. She knew she was smart enough, hard-working enough, motivated enough to get out of high school in three years. What she didn't know was how to make it happen.

The guidance counselor, however, did.

"Temperance, what you are trying to do here is extremely difficult," the wiry, graying woman had told her, staring down her long, upturned nose at the small but determined young woman seated across the way from her. Temperance nodded, sticking her bottom lip out as if in thought.

"I know," she said. The woman shook her head.

"I don't think you do," she said patronizingly. "Very few students choose this accelerated path, and even fewer succeed. It requires an incredible amount of diligence and application."

"I'm smart," Temperance said simply. "I can do it."

"It takes more than just average intelligence, dear," the woman said, her patience wearing thin.

Temperance flushed; _average_ intelligence? If there was one thing Temperance Brennan was not, it was average. She felt her blood boil for the first time in a long time—nothing that had happened to her in the past year of foster care had lit a fire inside of her like this simple comment. The framing, the lies, the let-downs, the insults… nothing compared to what this woman was trying to take from her. The only thing she had left. The only thing she ever knew—really knew—she was.

"I am not _average_," Temperance said, voice wavering at first, then finding strength. "I should have been more clear. I am extremely intelligent. Brilliant, even. I have a genius level IQ. If there is only one student in this entire school, in this entire _district_, who can graduate with twenty-four credits in three years, you're looking at her." She felt her voice grow steadily louder as she spoke, and by the time she was done, she herself was floored by her outburst. It felt like the first time she had truly spoken in a long time. The first time since she landed in foster care that she had a voice. The woman looked over her frames at Temperance, and seemed to sense a formidable opponent. She picked up her pen and uncapped it, a wry smile touching her features.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," she said. "Let's see what we can arrange."

The next semester, she took six classes at the local community college, in addition to the six courses she was taking at the high school. Each community college class, they had told her, would be worth two semesters of a high school course—effectively, she was completing her senior year in a single semester. On more than one occasion that spring Janice had draped a blanket over Temperance, asleep at her desk, face pressed into an open text book and highlighter still in hand. In addition to the superhuman feat of taking twelve classes, Temperance had the additional task of applying to colleges, a painful process which was compounded by the added difficulty of being a ward of the state.

"I want to be emancipated." It was ten-thirty at night, and Janice was seated in the rocking chair in the living room, reading a book. All of the lights in the house were off but for a few dim beacons to guide the children around pieces of furniture in the dark, and Janice only recognized Temperance by her voice and the shape of her tall, thin silhouette in the hallway. Janice raised her eyebrows.

"Oh?" she said. Temperance nodded, entering the room and taking a seat on the couch and leaning in towards Janice, who mirrored the gesture.

"I've been trying to apply for colleges," Temperance began. "But I can't apply as an independent person, because I'm not, and I don't have anyone I can claim to be a dependant of. I can't receive grants or scholarships designated for foster kids going to college, because I'm still in the system—" Janice flinched at the way Temperance said 'system', as if she were in prison rather than foster care. Maybe she was. "—so the only way I see it working out, is if I can get emancipated. I'm seventeen, I'm going to age out in six months, I just need to be considered an independent adult for my application." Janice listened to Temperance explain her situation, and realized that this was the first conversation of this kind she had ever had with any child in her care. _This girl,_ she thought to herself, _is the first child I have ever taken care of who will go to college._

"Well," Janice said, leaning in on her elbows and looking Temperance in the eyes. "I guess we need to go about getting you emancipated, then." Temperance's face lit up, and Janice couldn't help but smile.

"You'll help? I don't want you to feel like you have to, I can do it myself mostly, I just need—"

"Anything you need, Temperance, is yours," Janice said. "Anything we can do for you, to help you. Just ask." Temperance nodded, still smiling, and Janice leaned back in her chair.

"Thanks," Temperance said, standing up. "I'm going to go back to my room… I have a lot more reading I have to get done." She began walking back towards the hall, when Janice had a thought.

"You don't have to leave," she called out. Temperance stopped and turned.

"What?" she said.

"You don't have to leave, once you're emancipated," Janice said. "I mean the door is open for you, but nobody's kicking you out. If you want to stick around until you have somewhere else to stay…" Janice trailed off, and Temperance was silent. Then she crossed the room, reached down, and gave Janice a hug. Janice was slightly taken aback; coming from a child who generally showed no inclination towards, and even a slight distaste for displays of affection, this was a pleasant surprise.

Two weeks later, Temperance stood before a judge, in slacks and a pressed blouse, nervously smoothing the blouse with her hands as he reviewed her record. Janice stood beside her, equally nervous.

The judge looked up, and nodded.

She was free.

The morning before she left for Northwestern, Janice and Arthur had called her into the living room. She walked in to find all of the group home children—twelve, not including herself since she was no longer a ward of the state, but a guest of Arthur and Janice's—settled in the cramped living room, eyeing her as she entered. Janice led her to the couch, where a space had been left for her, and told her to sit. Janice walked to the wall and cut the lights, and suddenly everyone's eyes turned to the kitchen entry. Moments later Arthur emerged, carefully carrying a large square cake dotted with candles. He set it on the coffee table in front of Temperance, and she stared down at it—written messily in blue icing were the words, "Congratulations Temperance!"

After much overwhelmed crying and more unexpected hugging, Janice retreated to the bedroom and returned with the second surprise of the afternoon—a pile of wrapped gifts, all for Temperance.

"It's not a lot," Janice said as she set the pile down on the table next to the cake, only about a quarter of which remained. "Just some things we thought you might need."

The children around Temperance bounced as they watched her unwrap them one by one—extra long twin sheets, school supplies, a set of towels straight from Arthur and Janice's linen closet, a few kitchen utensils, and an empty picture frame.

"There's no picture in it," Temperance remarked. Arthur nodded, and bent over towards her.

"It's not about the past anymore, Temperance," he whispered into her ear. "It's about the future. Take the picture you want to take. Nothing else matters now."

Now she lugged all of her worldly possessions, contained in two duffle bags, down the long dormitory hallway at Northwestern University. She had received a fairly substantial financial aid package from the school, another from the state, and several independent scholarships she had applied for and won. With that money, and a part-time job, she hoped to be able to afford to stay in school.

She counted the doors as she made her way down the hall, looking for room 318.

"Three-fifteen… three-sixteen… three-seventeen…" She counted the doors as she walked past them, dodging other students. They all scrambled hectically up and down the halls like headless chickens, as it was the first day of move-in.

When Temperance reached the door, she put her key into the lock and turned it. The door was already open. She paused, wondering if her roommate was already inside, organizing her belongings. What would she think when she saw Temperance's light packing, her second-hand clothes, her off-brand belongings? Even without the garbage bags, Temperance still felt like a foster kid, being ushered into a new home.

_Take the picture you want to take. Nothing else matters._ Strengthened by Arthur's words, she pushed the door open and looked inside.

She saw a tall, dark-haired girl balancing herself precariously on a rolling chair, pounding nails into the wall. She didn't seem to hear Temperance over the sound of the hammer knocking against the nail heads, or at least did not acknowledge her presence. Temperance set her things down on the bed that wasn't already covered in assorted belongings, and approached the girl. At that moment, the girl seemed to lean too far in towards the wall, and the chair shot out from underneath her. Temperance jumped to dodge the chair as it whizzed across the room, hitting the desk on the opposite wall, and the girl toppled over on top of her. They both hit the ground, narrowly avoiding the other desk as they fell.

"Oh God," the girl said, sitting up and looking at Temperance, who blinked hard as stars popped in front of her eyes. "Oh God, I'm sorry!"

"It's okay," Temperance said, slowly lifting herself up to a sitting position.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked, cocking her head slightly and looking over Temperance. Temperance nodded.

"I'm fine," she said. "Really. Are you okay?"

"I mean, aside from the fact that I just assaulted my roommate without even knowing her name, sure," the girl said sarcastically, smiling broadly and revealing a set of very large, very white teeth. Temperance couldn't help but smile back; it was infectious.

"I'm Angela, by the way," the girl said, holding out a hand. Temperance shook it.

"I'm Te—Brennan," she said, making the sudden and permanent decision not to be Temperance anymore. Temperance was an orphan, a scared little girl with a troubled past and no friends. Temperance had baggage; Temperance had issues. Brennan was nobody—a clean slate, a fresh start. Nobody knew Brennan; Brennan was unknowable. Brennan was independent, and strong, and everything Temperance was not. She was Brennan; Temperance was dead.

"Nice to meet you, Bren," Angela said, rising to her feet and keeping hold of Brennan's hand, lifting her up as well. "You don't mind if I call you Bren, do you?"

"No, that's fine," Brennan said. "Bren is perfect."

"Great," Angela said.

"Great," Brennan echoed. And it was.

"So where are you from, Bren?" Angela asked, rolling the chair across the room and getting back up on it. This time Brennan grabbed the back of the chair and held it steady while Angela pounded the nails, raising her voice to be heard over the sound.

"Green Hill," she said. "It's outside of Bolingbrook."

"Sounds nice," Angela said as she hammered away.

"How about you?" Brennan asked. Angela launched into the story of the various places she had traveled with her parents, revealing that her father was a famed member of the band ZZ Top.

"Wow, really?" Brennan asked. Angela nodded.

"Yeah. So what do your folks do?" Angela asked. Brennan froze for a moment, mind racing. What did she say? What could she say? Temperance would crumble; Brennan would not.

"My dad's a science teacher," she said confidently. "My mom's a book keeper."

"That's cool," Angela said, and to Brennan's relief asked no further questions about her parents. She finished pounding nails into the wall, each spaced a couple of feet from the one before it, and stepped down from the chair.

"So what are you hanging?" Brennan asked. Angela pointed to the opposite corner of the room, where several canvases were leaned against each other. She picked them up one by one, hanging them from the nails until the broad wall of their room was covered in them. They both stepped back, taking them all in.

"They're beautiful," Brennan said, and they were. They were oil paintings, bold and rich with color, each with its own story to tell. One was entirely in shades of red, varying from the lightest pink to a red so dark it was nearly black. The image itself was of a heart—not a doodle heart, but a real human heart, so anatomically correct it appeared to be from a medical text. The one next to it was a sunset, so full with fluffy pink and tangerine and cool, still waters that Brennan felt she could fall into it and be, for the first time in her life, at the beach. Another one was an old man with a pipe, with a small boy at his knee, face alight with wonder. Another was a wolf, so realistically captured that his fur seemed to stand up off of the canvas. They kept on like that, each as real and alive as the one next to it, and Brennan felt her mouth fall agape in wonder at such skill.

"You're amazing," she finally said, after several minutes of drinking in the artwork. Angela grinned.

"Thanks," she said. "It's kind of my passion. And my major. What's yours?"

"I don't really know," Temperance said, furrowing her brows. "I'm good at science, I've been thinking about something in a scientific field. Maybe research." Angela made a face like she had just eaten a bug.

"Ew, science, no thanks," she said, laughing. "Wherever my career takes me, I seriously doubt it will ever have even the slightest thing to do with science." Brennan smiled.

"Nor mine with art," she said. "I like it, I just can't really do it. I guess that means we'll never be co-workers."

"Nope, not co-workers," Angela said. "Just friends." She smiled, and Brennan positively beamed. _Friends. _It was the first time she had ever heard that word used in reference to her, outside of phrases such as, _You are a loser and have no friends,_ or, _Look at the retarded foster girl with no friends._

For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she was taking the picture she wanted to take. And nothing else mattered.

* * *

**A/N:** I've been waiting to write this chapter FOREVER. Because I love Angela. Angela is a girl after my own heart - she gets dragged around by her gut all the time, because she knows her heart always has to have the last say, or she'll never be happy. She's quirky, and honest, and sensitive and optimistic and an idealist. She's a free spirit who refuses to be contained or censored, and I identify a lot with her. So writing anything that involves her is always fun for me. :) Yay for loud, free spirited women!

On a slightly more spiritual note, I don't know if any of you believe in spirits, ghosts, the afterlife, etc... but my friend visited me this week, the one who passed away in August. I was at his grave, crying my heart out, when out of the blue a butterfly landed on the grass next to me. It sat and watched me, twirling its feelers in the air around me. It would flutter up into the air, then settle a little closer, and a little closer, until it was right at my toes. I put my finger down and it climbed on, and I looked down at it and I knew. I just knew. I sat in the cemetary for the better part of an hour, and the entire time that butterfly sat with me, sometimes landing on my fingers, sometimes settling next to my toes, other times fluttering around his grave marker. For a while it sat next to me and just opened and closed its wings, listening to me talk. You can write it off as whatever you want, but I know it was him. And I have never been so thankful for anyone's company in my life.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." - Matthew 5:4 (NIV)


	19. Sending Words into Outer Space

**A/N:** It really touched me how many of you guys are not only believers in the afterlife, but have had your own encounters of the third kind, so to speak. :) But that's all I'm going to say about that for now. I've been having kind of a weird week, and I think that weird limbo feeling is reflected in this chapter. Since that was the kind of mood I wanted in this chapter anyway, I think that works out well. I guess you'll have to read it for yourself and decide. Oh, and for those of you who were bemoaning the lack of repair to B/B's relationship from the chapter before last, you will get to see some of that come to fruition... although I kind of went in a weird direction there at the end... I guess you'll get there and see for yourself. The human stream of consciousness can be a strange place. Enjoy!

* * *

_Is there a light?  
Is there a light?  
At the end of the road  
I'm pushing everyone away  
'Cause I can't feel this anymore  
Can't feel this anymore..._

_Have you ever been so lost?  
Know the way, and still so lost?  
Another night waiting for someone  
to take me home..._

_- Lost, Katy Perry_

* * *

Brennan did not drive the car—the car drove her. It drove her to the gas station off the side of the interstate, where she filled up the tank and asked around. They eyed her curiously—she was tall and pretty, and they knew they'd seen her face somewhere. They pointed her in the right direction and then the car took her there. Her hands turned the wheel, her feet tapped the pedals, but she wasn't driving. Her mind was elsewhere entirely, and the only possible explanation for how she could have safely navigated forty-five minutes of endless interstate was that the car drove her, and not vice versa.

It was just where they'd said it would be—on the far side of Green Hill, past the strip mall and the skating rink, out further than the new Wal-mart they built last year, and on a little bit past the rolling fields rowed with corn. They said when she saw it, she'd know. She did.

She knew because the grass was darker there, and longer. Not quite long enough to be totally unkempt—somebody mowed it on occasion—but still unruly, and wild with chickweed, dandelions, and little hop clover. There were no proper markers, only a few wooden crosses, or blank slabs of rock laid down in remembrance. In most places, the only indicator that anyone had ever been put to rest was a shallow indentation in the grass.

This was the potter's field; the misfit island of graveyards. This was where the poor, the nameless, the orphaned were buried. There was no distinction between young and old, black and white, male and female—they were all poor, and their poverty brought them here, to be dumped in an empty field outside of town. For these there would be no funeral, no bewailing loved ones, no intricately carved tombstones or bouquets of flowers on holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. It would not take time to forget them—they were already forgotten.

Brennan parked the car on the edge of the field, leaving her purse in the back and tossing the keys up on the roof of the car as she left—there wasn't another person around for miles, not a live one anyway, so she felt relatively safe leaving her belongings behind. She heard the grass crunch beneath her feet as she crossed the field—the morning's dew had long since evaporated, leaving the blades to bake in the summer sun. The sky was hazy, clouds of an ominous nature lurking in the western sky. As the sun crossed overhead, and the wind blew the clouds eastward, they seemed to be charging towards one another. Surely the sun would lose; it always did.

She didn't know what she was looking for, but she looked nonetheless. Her eyes passed over filled holes in the earth, long since grown over in grass and carpetweed, but obvious to the keen anthropologist in her. She had worked at enough digs and surveyed enough sites that any purposeful marring of the earth, even only centimeters shallow, would not elude her. To the untrained observer, the stretch consisted of a few crosses, several stone slabs, and a lot of field. Instead, she saw rows and rows of dead, essentially invisible. Made invisible. Nobody remembered them because nobody wanted to, and so it goes.

She finally found what she had been looking for all along, whether or not she knew it. Two stone slabs, cut into careful rectangles, lying next to one another in the grass. Unlike the other markers in the field, they were labeled, with named etched into their smooth surfaces. She kneeled down in the grass and touched one—ARTHUR JAMES CHAPLIN—and then the other—KAMARIA SELENE JOHNSON. She counted the years on the stones; Arthur had lived to be sixty-two, Kamaria, only sixteen. Sweet sixteen. Brennan traced the letters of her name with her fingertips, following their form like she was in grade school, just learning how to write. K, A, M, A, R, I, A.

"It's not fair," Brennan heard herself say out loud, her voice thick like the muggy summer air. It carried across the grass, but of course nobody heard her. She was talking to herself. She thought of Booth—how he spoke to the dead as if they could hear, how he prayed to God as if He would answer—and she felt a pain shoot from her chest down into her stomach. She thought of Ripley, buried out in the woods; an innocent victim, a creature that nobody wanted, that got kicked around and abused and died before anyone could really love him.

_So did she,_ Brennan thought to herself, staring down through water-glazed eyes at Kamaria's headstone. Janice had loved her, Arthur had loved her, Temperance had loved her. But life had abandoned Kamaria, kicked her around and abused her, and then she died before she could see the better things life had to offer. Before anyone could really love her.

_Will I die before anyone can really love me?_

"Will I?" Brennan asked aloud, feeling and hearing the raw edge on her voice. She cleared her throat, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. Would she?

"Will you what?" a voice asked. Brennan went rigid, feeling her hackles raise. She turned and relaxed when she saw an ever-familiar set of eyes watching her from several yards away. He pursed his lips together, seeming to wait for a sign, and Brennan turned around so that she was sitting down, knees pulled up to her chest, watching him. He took her gesture as an invitation, and walked towards her, until he was standing a few feet in front of her, hands in his pockets.

"How did you know I would be here?" she asked. He shrugged.

"I just kinda thought you would be," he said. She bit her bottom lip.

"How did you get out here?" she asked. This time he smiled, staring off at the dark clouds closing in on them.

"You'd be surprised what an FBI badge can get you," he said ambiguously, rocking on his heels. She stared down at the grass, tearing off small pieces and dropping them beside her. Neither of them spoke for a while—he stood like that, watching the sky, grappling for the right thing to say, the right way to let loose what was burning his insides. She sat like that, tearing at the grass, feeling an electricity in the air that could only be partially attributed to the oncoming summer storm. Finally he dropped down on the ground next to her, giving her about two feet of space, and stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You're a runner." His words cut through the silence like a bird call, snapping Brennan into the present day. Her brows furrowed, but she did not look to his face for an elaboration—she still refused to meet his gaze. She would not.

"A what?" she asked her knees, staring at them.

"A runner," Booth reiterated. "You're a runner. When things get bad, you run."

"What? I do not—"

"Yes you do," he said, cutting her off. "And I don't blame you." She was quiet, waiting for him to continue. After a moment's reservation, he did.

"You have good reason to be," he said. "To be a runner. To run. You live what you learn—nature versus nurture. Some things are biological, I guess, but for the most part, you live what you learn. And everybody, everything, taught you to run.

"When you were fifteen, your parents ran. They'd been running, but you didn't see it. But then they ran, in a really obvious way, and they left you and Russ behind. Then Russ ran, and it was just you, and you were standing still. You didn't run, you didn't have anywhere to run to. But they gave you a taste for it.

"Then you got put into that first home, with that—" Booth stopped for a moment, seeming to collect the more violent of his thoughts. "—that monster, and he hurt you. And then you ran. And you had a good reason to—fight or flight, survival of the fittest. Yes, I did pay attention in biology class," he said, smiling and looking down at the ground between them, smoothing the grass beside him.

"It was self-preservation, and you ran, literally. You outran what hurt you, and you were okay. Well, no, you weren't _okay_, but you thought you were. Then they chased you from home to home, in and out, and you kept running… you just kept running, to try to outrun what was hurting you. It didn't work, but you tried."

He stopped for a moment, still staring down at the ground, listening to Brennan regain composure. When her breathing settled, he continued.

"The older you got, the better you got at keeping it in. Soon nobody could tell what hurt you, what scared you. All they saw was the mask, and you were safe. You learned how to compartmentalize, how to put all of your bad feelings in a box and run from them, and they couldn't hurt you that way. You ran from everything you had to feel, until you couldn't feel it anymore. Once you got out of the system, you outran Temperance. You outran that scared little girl, and what she had to go through couldn't hurt you anymore. You kept running, and it went away.

"Your parents, your brother, the whole system, everything that hurt you… it all taught you to run. The more you ran, the less you hurt. You're a runner, and you still run. When you dive head-first into your work, and nobody can talk to you or even see you for days unless they're fifteen-hundred years dead, you're running. You run to Limbo and hide until what hurts you goes away. When you thought I was dead—" This time it was Booth who paused to take a settling breath. "—when you thought I was dead, you ran. You didn't want to come to my funeral, you said it was a waste of time."

"Booth, I—"

"I know you didn't mean it," he said. "You were just running. You were trying to compartmentalize, and if you could just wrestle it into a big enough box you could run from it and it couldn't hurt you anymore. It's what you do. You run. I get that. I understand that.

"But I think you're so busy running that you can't see how exhausted you are, and you're so tired from all that running that you don't see the people you're leaving behind when you go. A lot of people care about you, Bones, but it's so damn hard to love you when you won't let me."

He stopped. She took in a sharp breath.

_He said the L word._

They both took a few deep breaths, holding onto the earth beneath them like they might go flying off if they didn't. He hadn't meant to say it, it had just sort of come out in the emotion of the moment. He definitely meant it, he just hadn't meant to say it.

"I do," he said finally. "I do love you, Temperance, but you won't let me. You won't let anyone. Whenever anyone tries to love you, you run from them. You ran from Sully—"

"He's the one who left," she argued, still trying to find rightside-up after being hit with the L-bomb. Booth shook his head.

"No, he wanted you to come with him. You ran from the offer. You ran from him. And now there's this and us and I know I upset you, Bones, and I'm _sorry_. I was wrong, okay? I was _wrong_. You were absolutely right; I was just acting out of anger, I wasn't thinking, and I was wrong. But you can't just run from me—from this—the second the opportunity presents itself, just because you're scared. I'm scared too, Bones; I'm scared as hell. I'm scared I'm going to screw up the only thing that makes sense to me, that I'm going to make one wrong move and lose the most important person in my life, next to Parker." He stopped and looked up at the sky, which had been enveloped in a dark, brooding grey, blinking hard.

"All I want is for you to run to me, Temperance, but you keep running away… and I don't know how to fix that."

He fell silent, and she did not speak. They heard the thunder growl miles away, saw lightning flicker in the distant sky. The crows cried and scattered with each distant clap, growing louder and closer with the minutes. They sat for so long, so quietly, that Booth seriously wondered if she would ever say anything at all. She did.

"I don't know either," she said. It wasn't bitter, or derisive, just a simple and honest statement. An admission, even. He looked at her, for the first time, but she still stared down into her lap.

"I don't know how to stop," she said. "You're right—it's all I've ever known how to do. Even when I think I'm standing strong, I'm still running from something... and it is absolutely exhausting." She rubbed her face with her hands, as if feeling literal exhaustion. She sensed Booth as he scooted in a bit closer to her, still leaving a respectful gap.

"Then why do it?" he asked. "Why keep running?" Brennan thought about it for a moment, then sighed heavily.

"Because," she started. "If you run, nobody can ever leave you." There was a moment of tense silence, and then Brennan felt Booth's hand on her arm. She looked up at him.

"I am never going to leave you, Temperance." His words were strong, but his touch was soft. He gave her a second to process his words, then reiterated them, just to make sure they sank in.

"I am never going to leave you. Never. Not in this lifetime, not in the next. I have never left you, and I never will. Even when you run from me… I will never run from you. I will be right where you left me. I just wish that you could see that."

_let's start there the house  
unusually quiet no Bowser  
growls all of his clothes were  
gone in a puddle in the middle of  
the floor the phone  
chord wrapped around her  
fingers in a trash bag driving  
away the bricks cold the  
smile warm sad  
like an animal I'm Kamaria  
we make the beds a  
list all kids have them twice  
as long as  
mine don't nobody  
want me  
you'll be bad too they treat us  
like shit we treat them  
like shit don't  
fret very nice what kind of answer  
is that those potatoes liar gritty as  
hell say it LYING PIECE OF  
SHIT YOU HEAR red hot  
fingerprints mop the floor  
pick up the pieces  
wait run run run  
run run hit the floor  
chocolate cake it's her  
birthday give her zits and a family  
heirloom dirty thief please don't  
play stupid  
tell the truth  
tell a lie  
tell anything just make me  
smile please don't  
make me  
smile klepto can't be  
helped there she goes run  
run run falling deep  
down in the gopher hole  
tick tick even a dog looks good  
in a sweater tick tick  
hit the floor and never got  
up seventy two hours tick  
tick times up there  
she goes down into the  
gopher hole run run  
run time of death five forty  
three can't stay must go take  
your own picture are you  
alright temperance no not  
temperance brennan run run  
temperance is  
run run  
dead_

* * *

**A/N:** I told you I kind of went off into lala land with the ending there. So in reality, we STILL don't know what Brennan's final verdict is... but there is obviously a lot flashing through her mind. What did you think of that? Did it confuse you? Did it interest you? Did it work on any level or was it a waste of time and space and words? Let me know. :)

Oh and PS, yes the song in the beginning is sung by the same Katy Perry who sings that stupid "I Kissed a Girl" song, but this song is infinitely times better than that one... so I highly suggest everyone listen to it, just because the lyrics alone don't do it justice.


	20. Nine, Ten, Home Again

**A/N:** This is it... the last chapter. I didn't realize this was going to be the last chapter until I wrote it, and everything just kind of finished itself up. By the way, I apologize for the nearly two-week wait between the previous chapter and this one. I kept trying to start this one, then not being able to make any headway on it... or just plain not being in the mood to write it. I kept wondering to myself, why can't I just get this chapter out?

After a while I realized... I didn't want this fic to end. I didn't want to bring it all to a close, because it has been a lot for me. A lot of fun, a lot of good practice... and most importantly, a lot of healing. I started this fic two days before my friend died, not knowing when I began whether or not he was going to make it. Hoping, praying that he was going to make it... and then he didn't. The past two and a half months of grief and healing have been incredible painful, and also partly documented here, alongside this fic. When I was having a really rough day, really in pain and missing him, I could open up a Word Document and write out the pain, write out the heartache. I could share it with you, but more importantly, I could release it. When Temperance hurt, I hurt; when Temperance triumphed, I triumphed. Life is very much fiction with different names and faces, and that became incredibly true for me. I could transform my pain into something else, another pain, but more distant from me. I could see someone else work through that pain and move beyond it, and then I could try to do the same.

I still miss my friend every single day, but I also see him. He has visited me several times, he has shown me signs that his spirit is alive and happy, and while I miss him I cannot be entirely sad. I feel that as I bring this fic to a close, I am also seeing the worst throws of grief ebb away... replaced by something more melancholy, more subdued, and mostly, more hopeful. I have hope when I wake up in the morning that today will not be the worst; that it is getting better. I have hope that, while I know I will die, I may also live. Not live, but _live_. They say that true death is the unlived life. My friend may not have lived a particularly long life, or one with many great accomplishments... but I believe that he made the greatest accomplishment of all, without even trying - he _lived_.

There will be a true epilogue in the next chapter.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

_I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance  
Never settle for the path of least resistance  
Living might mean taking chances, but they're worth taking  
Loving might be a mistake, but it's worth making_

_Don't let some hell bent heart leave you bitter  
When you come close to selling out, reconsider  
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance  
And when you get the choice, to sit it out or dance...  
I hope you dance _

_- I Hope You Dance, Lee Ann Womack_

* * *

_May 18__th__, 1998_

Brennan maneuvered the '83 Camry off of the highway, pointing the car in the direction of Green Hill and resting her foot on the accelerator. Sometimes, out of sheer jumpiness, her foot stamped down on the gas and the car shot forward—jumping from an easy 55 to 70 or 75 with a kick and a loud cough.

"Sorry," she muttered under her breath, patting the dashboard. The vehicle was on its last legs, but it was all she could afford. An old junker, not much younger than she was, but it got from Point A to Point B and usually didn't give her any trouble, so she was grateful to have it.

She had never needed a car at Northwestern; she bought a second-hand bike her freshman year and with a little maintenance here and there, it held steady all four years of her undergrad, and that first year of grad school. Eight weeks ago, however, when she walked into her dorm and found a single letter sitting on her desk, everything changed.

"What's that?" she had asked Angela when she walked into their dorm, setting her bag on the chair by the desk and looking down at it.

"Mail for you," Angela said off-handedly, her nose nearly pressed to her current painting. She dabbed the canvas with a brush wet with acrylic paint, making each stroke with the precision of a surgeon's cuts.

"For me?" Brennan asked, picking the letter up between two fingers and holding it up to her face, scanning for a return address. None.

"Yeah," Angela said. "Mail. For you."

"But I don't get mail," Brennan said cautiously, sitting down on the edge of her bed and flipping the envelope over in her hands. It wasn't particularly thick, but the paper seemed of quality stock.

"Apparently, sweetie, you do," Angela said, looking up from her work. "Aren't you going to open it?" Brennan shrugged and slid her index finger under the corner of the flap, gently tearing it open. She pulled the paper out—sure enough, it was professional stock paper—and unfolded the letter.

"Dear Ms. Brennan…" she started, reading aloud. About halfway down the letter she stopped, her mouth falling open. Angela eyed her curiously.

"What is it?" she asked, getting up and hopping onto Brennan's bed next to her, peering over her shoulder. "Who sent it?" Brennan's eyes sped across the lines, down to the end of the paper signed sincerely, then re-read it. Angela rested her chin on Brennan's shoulder, also reading. When she got halfway down the page, she shrieked.

"Oh my God Bren, you got it!" she said, grabbing Brennan's shoulders and shaking her excitedly. "You got the internship! The forensic anthropology internship! You got it!" The corners of Brennan's agape lips turned upward into a broad, shocked smile, still unable to formulate words. Angela, however, had no such difficulty.

"You're going to Washington D.C.! You're going to work in the Jeffersonian!" she shouted, jumping off the bed and doing a dance in the middle of the floor, chanting repeatedly. "You're going to dee-cee, you're doing to dee-cee, you're going to dee-cee…" Brennan re-read the letter for the third time, feeling something swell inside of her. Pride? Accomplishment? Maybe even… excitement?

"I… I'm going to D.C.," she said finally, looking up to Angela and nodding her head, grinning broadly. "I'm going to D.C.!"

"You're going to D.C.!" Angela shouted at the top of her voice, grabbing Brennan's hands and pulling her to her feet.

"I'm going to D.C.!" Brennan said again, more loudly.

"You are going to Washington D.C.!" Angela positively bellowed.

"I'm going to Washington D.C.!" Brennan shouted at an uncharacteristically loud volume. Angela let out another thrilled scream, and began hopping up and down like an excited child. Brennan ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head in disbelief and unable to remove the smile from her lips.

"I'm going to D.C.," she whispered to herself, inaudible due to Angela's shrieks.

The next day she started looking for cars in the paper, and found the Beast. A 1983 Toyota Camry, and worse for the wear. Two of the windows didn't roll down, the passenger's side door had a ding in it, and the upholstery had seen better days. But it was cheap as all get-out, and that was all that mattered. She paid in cash, signed the papers, and it was hers. The first thing she had ever really owned, besides for an old beater bike. Her first real, adult purchase. She hummed an old tune to herself as she drove it back to campus, not knowing where it came from or why she knew it. When Angela saw the car, she cried.

"Ange, I know it's ugly, but it's all I need to get around the city in," Brennan explained. Angela shook her head.

"I'm not crying because your car sucks," she said. "I'm crying because my best friend's going to Virginia!" Brennan smiled—if you had asked her four years ago if she would ever be anyone's best friend, she would have laughed. Now she felt the strings of attachment tug at her heart.

"Hey, I'm still going to talk to you all the time," Brennan said, and Angela swooped her into a giant hug.

"You'd better, sweetie," she said, gaining her composure. "Because if you don't I'm just going to have to bust into that museum and find you myself."

Now she had five years at Northwestern behind her, and several years of a prestigious internship at the Jeffersonian ahead of her, and she was on the road.

She had always known the house would be there, waiting for her. Her parents had paid for their home in full, in cash—money she would come to find out came a la bank heists, but had been told was inherited from her dead grandparents. The house, the furniture, everything they owned they had paid for in full. The electricity had long been turned off, and the place may very well have been ransacked, but it would undoubtedly still be there.

As the miles ticked by and she came closer and closer to her old home, she felt her stomach twist into knots. She hadn't stepped foot into the house since the afternoon the police took her into custody; the afternoon she threw a week's worth of possessions into Russ's old bag, and was gone with the wind. The first few weeks of foster care, she pined for the house like nothing else. The familiar smell, her bright pink bed sheets, dad's Sunday morning radio beating out an old tune as he made breakfast. As the weeks faded into months, the desire for the old house faded as well. She thought less about where she had come from, and more about where she was going. Thinking about the present wasn't an option, and thinking about the past was too painful—the future, though, was safe ground.

She didn't need directions to find the old suburb on the west end of town, ivy creeping up the sides of the entrance sign. She was, in fact, stunned by how _same_ everything was. Many of the houses were the same color, with the same basketball hoops and flower bushes out front. Some even had the same cars parked in front of them. It burned her, down in the bottom of her stomach—every single aspect of her life over the past six years had changed, then changed again, until nothing was recognizable. But when she returned to the beginning, it was as if nothing was different. As if she were coming full-circle.

She rounded the corner, and found the house still standing. Part of her—the completely irrational but deeply hopeful part—had hoped that she would round the corner and find a smoldering crater the only remnant of her old life. And yet, there it was—the same blue house, though the paint was shabby, with the same curtains still hanging in the window. The yard was overgrown, a jungle six years unkempt, but the same perennial flowers exploded beneath the windows. Brennan remembered her mother planting them years and years ago—_If you plant perennials, it doesn't matter if you suddenly forget about them. They'll just keep coming back_. How poetically apt, Brennan thought, as she parked her car at the curb in front of the house.

Her hands shook as she flipped through her key ring, finding the old brass-colored key that matched the door's lock. She demanded her hands to behave, but the trembling persisted nonetheless. Frustrated, she balled the hands into fists, taking a few deep breaths. When they finally obeyed, she turned the key in the lock, and slowly swung the door open.

It was like stepping into an old photograph of what her life used to be. Everything was untouched, as it had been when she left six years ago. The same books stacked neatly on the edge of the coffee table, the same furniture arranged around the living room. Russ's old Super Nintendo lay on the floor in front of the television, wires tangled. The air in the house smelled stale, like it had been trapped for too long. She locked the door behind her, then slowly proceeded to throw the windows open. One by one unlocking the stubborn locks, and allowing a temperate summer breeze to pass through the screens.

She passed into the kitchen, and smelled something faintly rotten. There were stains on the counter from where old pieces of fruit had rotted away and been consumed by bugs, leaving little trace of what once was. She opened the refrigerator, and immediately wished she hadn't—the rotten stench was magnified by at least a hundred, as a Pandora's box of smells was released into the room. Everything was covered in a green furry growth, and the shelves were covered in secretions of varying consistency—some very thin and liquid, others thicker, closer to a solid. Brennan could not and did not want to remember what they used to be; rather, she shut the door and exited back into the living room, covering her mouth and nose with her shirt.

Past the stairs and down the hall was her parent's old bedroom. She entered it hesitantly, feeling as if she were encroaching on taboo grounds; an Indian burial site, perhaps, or a religious temple. The bed was haphazardly made, as it was whenever her father made it. Her mother was tidy about the corners, tucking them under with the precision of a hospital nurse, but her father would just as soon leave them hanging loosely over the edge of the bed. There was a disparity between her father's "side" of the room—his dresser and desk—and her mother's. His dresser drawers were stuffed, with the occasional shirt cuff or pants leg sticking out of the partially closed drawer; his desk was scattered with an array of personal notes, photographs, and gum wrappers. Her mother's dresser, on the other hand, was absent of any clutter, and six years ago would have been spotless. Now, Brennan could run her finger along the top and reveal a thick line cut out of the dust. Her desk was the same way, with only a lamp and a photograph of the family on its surface.

Brennan picked up the photograph and sat down on the edge of their bed with it, sending up a cloud of six years' worth of settled dust. She coughed and wiped her eyes, peering down at the picture. It was a photograph of their trip to Lake Michigan, when Russ was twelve and Brennan was eight. Her father had passed the camera along to another tourist, who snapped the shot for them, allowing for the entire family to grace the frame. Her father had his arms wrapped protectively around Brennan and her mother, with Russ hanging off of his neck. They all squinted against the sun, smiling broadly, and Brennan's nose and cheeks had sun.

She touched the glass separating her fingers from the photograph, tracing the shape of her young, smiling face. She had a family—parents to love her, a brother to protect her. They had a home, and a dog. The dog got hit by a car, she recalled, when they were on that very vacation. Their neighbor accidentally let him get out, and he ran right into the road. When they got home and found out, Brennan had cried for days. Everywhere she went in the house felt like Buddy; the end of the couch he used to lie on, the place where his dishes used to sit. Her father picked her up and she sobbed into his shoulder, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her

He ran away and got hit, and left them. They ran away, and left her.

In one swift motion, she threw the frame against the wall, watching the glass between herself and who she used to be shatter into fractions of the whole.

In the end, they would all run away. Everybody would run. Even she would.

_I'm a runner._

There would be nothing left between them.

_You're a runner._

"I don't want to be a runner anymore," Brennan said, suddenly seeing Booth before her for the first time in what felt like a while. His eyebrows shot up; it was like she was gone, then back. She took a deep breath and felt the tears come, and while she normally would have banished them in the name of control, she did not care. Lightning crackled overhead, and the sky began to fall on them, raindrops hiding her tears.

"I don't want to run," she repeated, her voice battling the increasing roar of the thunder. The rain grew heavier, but they did not flee it. "I don't want to be a runner."

"Then don't!" Booth said loudly enough to be heard over the deluge that had engulfed them, finally bridging the gap between them and touching her hand. "Don't run anymore. Nobody's chasing you. You don't have to run anymore." She eyed him hard through the downpour, really looking at him, and then smiled through her tears. He smiled back, leaning in until their lips were nearly touching.

"Just stand with me," he said, his voice quiet and steady, almost not to be heard over the thunder as it crashed. Brennan leaned in, their lips touching, and then pulled back slowly. Her lashes were dusted with small water droplets, and rain dripped off the ends of their noses. Her hair clung to the sides of her face, and their clothes stuck to their shivering bodies like a second skin. The sky had grown to blackness, light and dark warring overhead. She smiled.

"Okay."


	21. Epilogue: When The Big One Finds You

_There is a time for everything,  
and a season for every activity under heaven: _

_a time to be born and a time to die,  
a time to plant and a time to uproot, _

_a time to kill and a time to heal,  
a time to tear down and a time to build, _

_a time to weep and a time to laugh,  
a time to mourn and a time to dance, _

_a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,  
a time to embrace and a time to refrain, _

_a time to search and a time to give up,  
a time to keep and a time to throw away, _

_a time to tear and a time to mend,  
a time to be silent and a time to speak, _

_a time to love and a time to hate,  
a time for war and a time for peace. _

_What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God._

_- Ecclesiastes 3:1-13_

* * *

Like the Good Book says, there is a time for everything. A time to be born, and as my friend painfully reminded my heart... a time to die. There is a time to weep, and more importantly, a time to laugh when the tears dry. There is a time to mourn our losses, but we can't be sad forever - we must also dance.

There is a quote of African origin that says, "If you can talk, you can sing. If you can walk, you can dance." Beyond the literal meaning, I think there is also a somewhat spiritual message as well - we can all go through life walking, putting one foot in front of the other as a means to move us down the road. Or we can let the joy of the universe fill us, and we can dance. To walk is to exist, but to dance? That is to live. In Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance", she's not telling us to dance... she's telling us to live. Don't spend your entire life walking. Stand in awe of the vastness of the ocean, let the view from the top of a mountain take your breath away. Love with everything you've got, embrace every gift in your life... and dance.

Beyond all that is deep and spiritual, there is also a time for a fanfic to begin... and a time for it to end. This one has reached the latter. Writing this fic has been a lot of fun and a lot of emotional release for me in a really hard time. Having you, my readers, following me throughout this painful emotional journey with your really touching notes of encouragement and commiseration has meant more than you know. Reading about your own experiences with pain and loss reminds me that I am not alone in my grief, and that in fact none of us are alone. We reach out to each other more than we know, and spin little threads that keep us bound to each other, and reality. When you have nothing else binding you, you have those little threads... so many of them put together that they are strong enough to hold you.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." I have heard that quote attributed to Plato, and it is very true. There isn't a one of us who hasn't experienced pain and loss to some degree, and I think we begin to realize that when we share with each other. Instead of focusing on our differences, when we see someone who is mourning a loss, we realize just how similar we are. Black, white, young, old, rich, poor... nothing makes us impervious to pain. We all suffer, and we all help hold each other up. That is the most beautiful aspect of humanity.

I feel like I am rambling here, but I want you to understand how much I appreciate every single one of you. As readers, as kind individuals who extended a hand to me in a painful time, and in the case of some of you guys... as friends. You know who you few are - thank you.

A lot of what I wrote in these past 20 chapters was based in some form of experience or reality. Despite this, any similarity between one of my personal characters (Janice, Arthur, Kamaria, The Prune, Chuck, Leslie, Sarah, etc. etc. etc.) and any real person, living or dead, is PURELY coincidental. Some of their traits and behaviors are based on people I know or have known, but none of them is rooted entirely in that person. And of course, we must render unto Caesar what is Caesar's... all canon characters, locations, plot archs, etc. belong to Bones, which belongs to Fox.

As I change the status of this fic to "completed", I am taking a deep breath and moving on to my next project. It will be called _The Pretty Women in the Pumpkin Patch_, and has a decidedly Halloween-y feel to it... because I love Halloween! The first chapter should be up within the next day or two, and I really hope to hear from you guys on that one too. :)

To wrap it all up... thank you. Thank you for reading, for your reviews, and for your heart. Thank you for walking alongside of me with this fic, for celebrating and mourning with me. Now go. Laugh a lot. Read good books. Love with every piece of your heart and never go to bed angry. Don't run unless you have someone to run with. And mostly... dance.

Peace,

Kate


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